Herald: In Sigmar's Name
by Psykic Ninja
Summary: The Auric Bastion has fallen, the armies of the Empire are in full retreat. Among them is the boy Valten, hailed as the Herald of Sigmar, the hero that will save them all. But Valten remains uncertain of his path, and as he battles the warriors of the north, he must come to terms with it or the Empire will fall. Part of the End Times Retold Series
1. The Retreat

How was he supposed to be the saviour of the Empire when he couldn't even leave his tent? Valten sat on his stool, head in his armoured hands, trying to work out what was happening beyond the canvass walls imprisoning him through sound alone. It was impossible. He heard walking, but everyone walked at some point. Much the same could be said about talking. Walking and talking, these were what Luthor Huss left him to try and work out how in the name of the bloody, daemon-spawning hells what was happening.

He got to his feet, sitting just made it worse, and approached the tool of his so-called victory. Ghal Maraz, the Skull Splitter, the weapon of Sigmar himself – and aside from that one time where he had destroyed the daemon shape shifter, he had yet to wield it in battle. He was a blacksmith's boy, he had grown up around hammers of all sorts, but nothing came close to the craftsmanship, or raw power that came from the golden hammer. His smith's mind was telling him that gold was soft, useless when forged into a weapon of war, his eyes were telling him that if anything could stop the ever advancing armies of Chaos, it was this hammer.

He heard someone approaching his tent. Luthor? No, that warrior priest was never without his heavy armour, someone else, someone in lighter clothing. An assassin? It wouldn't be the first time an assassin had come for the most powerful men in the Empire. He thought back to the cackling laughter of the daemon that had nearly slain the Supreme Patriarch. Former Supreme Patriarch, he reminded himself. The head of the Cult of Sigmar couldn't well insult the orders of magic so readily. He wasn't ready for this.

But the tent pulled back and it wasn't an assassin, only Erich. "Herald," he bowed his head to hide the smirk that came to his face. His friend took great pleasure in the fact that the boy he'd run through pigsties with as children was now the Herald of Sigmar.

"Don't bow Emil," he said, feeling his face flush. "I get enough of that from the priests." In his nordland village, the priest had been the highest ranking person, now they bowed to his approaching footsteps, the world was truly on its head.

"Just tell them to stop," Erich said, sitting down without invitation. "They obey your every word."

"I wish," then he could command them to let him go, no, they still listened to Luthor's instructions above his own in the things that mattered most. Huss meant well, but Valten was growing greatly angered at him. "They barely let me see most people, they only let you in after a week of insisting."

Erich shrugged. "Well, they'll come round, smack their heads together if it comes to it."

Valten laughed, god how he missed it, but an army in retreat had little to laugh about. "Oh my dear Erich, I'd love to continue this, but if you're here, Luthor soon will be. What news is there?" He'd had Erich listen in on the war councils, Luthor brought him the news, but also brought preaching and teaching and he had trouble remembering it all, he'd found it easier if Erich delivered the news and then he could focus on his learning about the Cult of Sigmar with Luthor.

Erich nodded, his lips thinning into a line. "It's been more than a week since we heard from the Vampire's rearguard at the Folly." The new name for the Bastion did little to inspire the confidence needed in the army. He thought back to the day the Cult had abandoned the Auric Bastion. Perhaps if he'd been better, if he'd had more control, he could have convinced them to remain, and they wouldn't be in this situation. "The Emperor has given up sending scouts, the last teams lost two of every three members and barely brought any news. He says von Carstein is dead or fled and we'll discover later or not. In the meantime, we have little news from Count Aldebrand Ludenhof since he retreated back to Hergig, but soon we'll be at the Talabec, and the Emperor plans to entrench there."

Valten nodded. They'd been harried day and night by raiders, beastmen from the Drakwald and the vanguard of the enemy hordes. It was inevitable, alone, Vlad von Carstein could never have held the line for long. Sigmar above, how was he supposed to stop this all. "What about the men?" He asked.

"Barely holding it together some of them, those assigned to the rearguard in particular, they need hope and they aren't getting any, they need a victory, or something."

"And I'm supposed to bring it to them," Valten muttered.

"Not from in here you won't."

"I know."

A few moments passed before Erich got to his feet. "Come." He looked at Erich blankly. "The men will feel some relief if they can catch sight of their hero."

Valten jerked his head to the tent entrance and the warrior priests waiting just beyond. "They won't let me out of here, not before Huss arrives, and then he'll sit me down for some lecture."

"This is a tent, not a palisade," Erich said, moving over to the far side. "There is more than one way out of here." With that he bent down and pulled up the back flap just enough to poke his head under and peer out. "All's clear, be right back." With a great deal of undignified shuffling, Erich scrambled under the canvass. He sure didn't expect Valten to follow in his armour did he? "Come on, quick!" Erich hissed. Apparently he did. Valten moved to the flap and saw that it was sagging slightly, Erich must have undone one of the ropes holding it down. He was about to kneel when he paused, retrieved Ghal Maraz, he wouldn't let the heirloom of Sigmar go missing because he left it behind joyriding through the camps. He got down on hands and knees and followed Erich out of the tent.

"Now isn't this better?" Erich asked as they wandered towards the rear of the column. They'd moved fast, not stopping for a breather until they were well out of sight of Valten's tent and the priests who would seek to haul him back as soon as they noticed that he was gone. Now they were closer to the rearguard, Valten allowed himself to relax a little.

"Much," he replied, breathing deeply, barely feeling the weight of Ghal Maraz, slung across his back. The smell of roasting flesh over fires met his nostrils. Soldiers cooking sausage and pork and flesh stripped from fallen steeds. "These must be men of Talabheim," he mused as they passed a detachment of crossbowmen around a fire. He had difficulty with the flags, but he could tell their accents apart, and recognised their story as a local legend amongst those who lived along the Talabec. "General Otto was watching the rearguard wasn't he?" He asked Erich.

"If you say so," Erich shrugged. He'd slipped his hands into his pockets as they walked together, more enjoying the act of walking itself than the surroundings they found themselves in.

They continued to walk, the sounds of the Talabeclanders and their stories reaching them from cookfires. General Otto ran a tight unit of the army of Talabheim, and his men were either resting or on patrol at the edges of the camp. No one accosted him on his way, a few took notice and hurried to get out of his way. He was sure to send each one as easy a smile as he could. The smile and attention of a hero could be as tender and soothing as the kiss and caress of a lover.

Eventually the smell of cooking flesh took on a darker scent, and they reached the rear of the camp to see them lit by three great funeral pyres for the soldiers who'd fallen that day. The tang of spent gunpowder mingled with the burning flesh and scent of spilt blood, there had been a skirmish here, recently. Several units of hardened soldiers stood to attention, looking out as far as the light of the fires illuminated towards the trees. Behind them, others were stripping the bodies of anything useful and depositing them on the pyres. There was no time for proper burials on a retreat. "Stay ready men," General Otto said from not too far away, watching out over the tree line, hand on the hilt of his sword. "I expect the beasts to try again before the night is done."

As he stepped up to the barricade, acknowledging the mutters and gasps of surprise from the men, he saw scattered corpses of gors of the forest as well as barbarian raiders between the camp and the tree line, littered with quarrels and ragged with holes. "Beastmen." He muttered.

General Otto glanced at him for a moment, then nodded. "Quite right herald, "and their barbaric scum friends."

"I see you saw them off," Valten replied.

"I did, and I will again."

Valten nodded. The general couldn't be much older than he was, but his diligence in his duty was commendable. "You think they will come?"

Otto nodded. "Indeed, this was pitiful, there will be others nearby, drawn by the slaughter." He glanced at him. "Will you stand with us, Herald?"

Valten nodded. "I'm tired of huddling in a tent, I will bring fury crashing down on these monsters."

The men grinned and chuckled at his words. Gods how he missed fighting, life had been so much easier back then, none of this herald stuff or talking of destiny, just fighting, fighting to protect, fighting to hurt, fighting to win, nothing was quite like it.

"Guess I'm staying too," Erich said, smiling and drawing his sword.

Otto was right, not so long later, the twisted malformed goat head of a gor poked around the treeline. "Has to be gors," Otto muttered with utter disgust in his voice. "Ready arms!" Crossbowmen and handgunners levelled their weapons at the tree line.

"Not so fast General," Erich said. Otto balked that a commoner would speak to him, a general of the von Brumderhack family line, that way. But Erich was Valten's friend. Erich slapped Valten's shoulder. "There aren't so many of them, let's let our herald stretch his muscles a bit."

Valten grinned, the warmth of battle-heat rising in him. Otto considered him, then nodded. Valten stepped beyond the reaches of the camp towards the tree line.

When he'd put about ten metres between him and the camp he stood still, Ghal Maraz still on his back. "Come on savages!" He called. "Come fight me!"

Three gors armed with crooked spears answered him first, breaking from the tree line, slobber flying from their twisted mouths as they raced towards him.

He grinned as he raised his fists, no need to sully his hammer. He didn't bother avoiding the spears of the beasts. The first splintered on his breastplate without leaving a scratch. He slammed his fist into the beast's stomach, crumpling it. He hefted it like a doll and used the body as a shield against the next spear. The gor howled with pain as the twisted barb punched through his belly. Valten pushed, sending the two of them scattering to the floor. The next charged heedless, Valten caught it's arm, folded his arms around its neck and twisted in one deft movement. He stepped over to the two sprawling gors, the second one having pushed the impaled one off him. But before he could get up, Valten brought his armoured boot down on its face. The sickening crunch of cartilage and bone made him smile. He stepped to the side. "Anyone else?" He called calmly.

More came, a dozen or more, all charging at him, snarling and panting. He smiled and charged to meet them, he lay into them with his gromril covered fists, smashing faces and limbs with powerful blows, crushing throats beneath his fingers and powdering ribs beneath his boots. None of this mass of filth was truly worth it, but by Sigmar it made him feel good. If only the priests were more ready to let him off the leash, then he could bring his strength against all the enemies of the Empire, completing Sigmar's work.

Still they came and still they died when a loud crack split the air. He looked around, it seemed the gors were choosing the easier target of the camp rather than him and were charging it in great numbers, General Otto's men were already fighting to repel them. He spun, punching a leaping gor in the middle of the face with such force that it's neck snapped backwards.

Trees splintered as a trio of minotaurs emerged, snorting and wielding great crude axes. Finally a challenge! He charged, disregarding the feeble strikes of the gors, one tried to stop him and died. He leapt up at the first minotaur, slamming it in the face with one of his gauntlets. He reached up and caught it by the horn, dragging the beast to its hands and knees. It stared at him with malice and hatred. That wouldn't do. He raised his fists and smashed those cursed eyes to pulp with two punches. He released the horn and let it stagger to its feet, spinning wildly, roaring against the pain and sudden darkness. The next minotaur shoved it's useless friend aside and came at him, swinging his axe at Valten's side, clearly looking to cut him in half. Valten dug his feet in and took the blow. The force behind it was enough to push him to the side, his feet dragging through the ground, but it never even worried his armour. When he came to a halt, he seized the haft of the hammer, smashing the fingers holding it. The minotaur let go with a howl. He stepped forward, adjusting his grip on the great axe, using the momentum of his spin to bring it up and smash it into the beast's twisted skull, felling it in a single blow.

No more games, he grunted from the effort and reached to his back, pulling Ghal Maraz into his hand. He charged the last minotaur, ducking low and slamming his shoulder into its stomach, falling on top of it. He pushed himself up on its disgusting chest of twisted black hair, raised Ghal Maraz and brought it down, splashing the ground with blood, brains and bone.

"Herald!" Someone called. He turned his head back to the camp. They had driven off the beastmen as easily as he had, but one of the men was pointing to a group of the escaping beastmen, who were dragging soldiers with them into the forest, including...

"Erich!" He roared. His friend was in the grip of a hefty gor as it was disappearing into the darkness of the treeline. "General Otto!" Valten called back. "Hold the camp, I'm going after them!"

He vaguely heard Otto's call, but didn't listen as he charged towards the trees. But before he got there, two trees were pushed aside by a giant Cygor. The huge beast carried a great boulder under one arm and stared down at him with the hate of four gods in its eyes.

"Get out of my way," Valten roared.

In response the beast hefted its boulder and sent it spinning through the air towards him. He brought Ghal Maraz up in a great arc. It connected with the boulder in a flash of blue light, shattering it into a hundred pebbles that scattered across the ground. He set himself and charged. He dodged a great fist that shook the ground itself as it slammed into him. He swung Ghal Maraz at the beast's knee, the highest vulnerable point he could reach. The kneecap shattered and the beast fell, catching itself on twisted hands. He snarled and brought his hammer around again, taking an elbow this time. He continued his motion, bringing his hammer up in a great uppercut that took the beast in the middle of the face. As it rolled to the ground, roaring in pain, he smashed it, and smashed it and smashed it until it lay silent and still. Puffing for a second, he turned and raced into the woods to rescue the men the beasts had taken.

He tore through the trees, swatting aside the gors who decided to try their luck in the branches. He saw the beasts dragging one soldier who had caught a bolder to hold them back. He charged over, in three strikes he had killed the beasts dragging the soldier. "Back to the camp, now!" He hissed, dragging him to his feet. "Go!" He turned and ran on.

In the forest he was slowed, the Drakwald was the home of the beasts, and they were suited to it far better, they could scramble over rocks and fallen trees while he had to clamber in his heavy plate. The only thing slowing the beasts were the prisoners they carried.

He managed to reach another two prisoners and free them, sending them back to the camp, before he reached the encampment of the gorherd and had to pause and take stock of his foes.

He crouched on the outskirts, his fingers curling into fists as he saw what was happening in the middle of the camp. The last three prisoners, including Erich, were being dragged to an altar, an altar covered in dried blood and surrounded by scattered bones. At least a hundred gors surrounded it, in thrall to the blood god, swaying and braying to the night sky. A shaman of some kind stood before the altar, arms raised in praise to their god. Then it gave a gesture and Erich was dragged to the altar.

"No!" He roared, and charged.

His hammer became a blur of gold and flashing blue as he lay into the horde with abandon. Every blow was coming to him in instinct, shattering limbs, joints and heads with great force. He placed every blow, every strike disciplined and focussed and deadly. At first the horde reeled back, but then they scrambled at him, desperate to get to grips with the one daring to interrupt their ritual. But there was no tactic or finesse to their attacks. Valten forced thoughts of Erich out of his head for now and focussed only on the battle. Thought beat brute strength, in the height of the moment he could turn his body perfectly to allow his armour to take blows from one side while he dealt out a torrent of death on the other. Whenever a head was exposed he shattered it, a spear overextended, he made a bloody ruin of the hands holding it. He fought his way to the camp, the gors carpeting the ground around him as he smashed his way towards the altar. Ghal Maraz spun as a whirl of death and defiance, felling foes on all sides, he lashed out with fists and feet, driving beasts onto the campfires to burn and roast to the screams of the mad and the dying.

By now the shaman was gesturing at Valten, but the gors, so eager to attack a camp of the faceless were not so determined to get to grips with the being making his way so easily through their camp, indeed, many of the lesser gors were fleeing into the trees. When raiding a village, the little ones fed of the blood spilled by the greater champions, but by now, the better warriors had already charged and died to the great warrior. Soon they broke, the desire to spill blood overcome by the desire, even held as it was by such twisted beasts, to live another day. Alone among the fleeing stood the shaman, and Valten charged, leaping on to the altar. Ghal Maraz fell and the shaman fell with it. He turned to the camp as the last gors scattered into the trees.

"I did it Erich I-" He cut himself short as he turned to Erich. "No, Erich!" Erich and the other prisoners lay in small heap on the ground. "NO!" He fell to his knees beside them, Erich's eyes open, glassy and full of defiance. The beasts had cut their throats when they knew he was going to stop their ceremony, damn them, damn them all! He cradled Erich's head gently. "Damn you bastards, damn you all to your hellspawn dominions!"

He wasn't sure how long he stayed there, but he knew he couldn't stay forever, nor could he take the bodies back to the camp, and asking men to come to pick them up was too much to ask of them. The remnants of the herd were still out there along with who knew what else. He walked to the mass of hide, canvas and wooden prongs that made up the camp and piled them in the middle of the camp. One after another, he dragged the five bodies to the mass, carefully laying them side by side. Taking up Ghal Maraz he approached a nearby tree. A single blow splintered a branch and sent it crashing to the ground in pieces. He gathered the pieces and added them to the growing pyre.

He wanted to say something, but what were the right words? The priests had been teaching him all about the nature of chaos and why it must be destroyed, how to spot signs of it's corruption, but had neglected to tell him the right words to say over a funeral pyre. Some teaching.

"Rest well, undefiled by the horrors of the enemy," he ended up saying. Using flint and stone he sparked the pyre alight.

He closed his eyes, wishing their souls to Morr's garden.

"Spread out, find him!"

He turned at the shouts. A squad of templar knights burst into the camp, led by two Warrior Priests and guided by a Witch Hunter, no _the_ Witch Hunter, Emil Grussner. Witch Hunters often developed reputations, but this was the man who had guided both Crusades into Sylvania, and who had tracked down and nearly slain the Changeling. Had he only been a little better, all that the Changeling sought to wrought could have been prevented.

"Herald," the leading priest said in relief. "By Sigmar's grace, you're alive."

Valten didn't reply.

"Was this your work?"

"Obviously," he replied after a pause. "But I wasn't fast enough to save them," he gestured to the pyre, twisted limbs still visible in the dancing flames.

"Herald I-" he cut himself off, or someone cut him off.

It turned out to be Emil. The Witch Hunter had stepped up beside him, holstering his pistol and removing his wide brimmed hat in respect. The man seemed... old. Valten knew he was past forty, but even so, the lines in his face spoke of more experience than those years suggested. "You will always be too slow," he said softly. "It is something I learnt early on. You can hunt down a traitor, a witch, a daemon or a heretic, but no matter how fast you get there, they will always have done harm. Every time you watch someone you know or love die because you weren't fast enough it will hurt, the knife of it will twist in your heart and gut. But you must never stop, because if you stop, then that loss means nothing. You must keep fighting, because when we stop fighting, that is when the dark forces of this world win."

"Not everyone can do that," Valten replied. "Otherwise there would be a thousand Sigmars."

"And the world would be at utter peace," Emil added, resting a hand on his shoulder, not unkindly. "But it isn't, this is the world we live in. The enemy will never stop, never cease, never cast aside their desires for the destruction and desecration of all we hold dear. The people look to us for guidance and protection, they always have, they look to me as a Witch Hunter, and you as the Herald of Sigmar to protect them. We must fight, we must continue to struggle every time, because if we do not, then no one else will. Remember that."

Valten nodded. "I will."

"We should head back, now," one of the templars said.

"No," Emil replied. "It is too dark now and the enemy is routed. We wait for dawn, when we can see our own feet again. Then we'll head back."

They started talking about watches and rotations as he dropped to one knee. "I'm sorry Erich," he whispered. Whatever Emil said, his friend was dead and wasn't coming back.


	2. The Count of Hochland

Chapter 2 Hergig

"Quickly, ride!" They broke through the treeline, racing towards the eastern bridge out of his home city of Hergig. A glance over his shoulder told him that they were still being followed a dozen marauder horsemen, throwing axes in hand, following them closely behind. He cursed under his breath and slipped his long rifle out of its case. Spinning in the saddle, he took aim and fired, the blast catching the lead marauder as he raised an axe to hurl at them, carrying him bloodily off his horse. He slipped his rifle back into the holster and kicked his horse into a faster gallop, his outriders following suit. "Archers!" he roared at the approaching outpost guarding the eastern end of the long bridge. Already two detachments of crossbowmen were lined up, while spearmen pulled aside the portable barriers, leaving an opening for his men to speed through. As they did so, his men fired their bolts, downing four more of the marauders and causing the rest to come to a screeching halt before wheeling around and galloping away.

"Good work men," he said, pulling up his horse, the steed panting from the hard ride. "How goes the work here?"

The captain in charge of the two hundred men he'd put to guard the bridge end stepped forward. "Count Ludenhoff, the explosives are almost in place, we will be ready to destroy the bridge shortly."

Aldebrand nodded. "Keep up the work captain. How many scouts and hunter parties have returned?"

"Three parties, all the scouts." He nodded, he'd expected so. Every day this past week the scouts had been reporting the enemy moving closer, barbarian warriors clambering through the forest towards the river on which Hochland sat, so that they were all already back was no surprise to him.

"Any messengers?"

The captain shook his head. "None from this direction sir, it looks like we'll hold alone."

Aldebrand's lips thinned. "If it is to be," he muttered, "keep up the good work captain, I must return to the city for now."

He spurred his horse onwards, over the bridge that stood tall over the lazy river that curved around Hochland like an arm. On the bridge soldiers were moving, overseeing the setting of explosives and gunpowder trails down the supports. Would they have enough time? It seemed the enemy would soon be upon them. Hergig, the first place the hammer of chaos would fall after the Bastion.

The gate itself, one of four into the city, was being reinforced with wooden supports, and above, a permanent watch of crossbowmen and riflemen keep guard, saluting him as he passed beneath them. He may not have the numbers that Middenland, Talabecland or Stirland could muster, but these were his men, and he knew they would do him proud. _But will they make you proud in victory or death?_

Inside a very familiar voice was shouting commands. "There are more than enough bolts here, we need more sent to the southern gate, move!" Porters drafted from the citizenry of Hergig rushed to obey Ottilia's commands and hefted sheafs of crossbow bolts onto carts before moving them to another gate. "And what's the word on the refugees?"

"Most of the children and their mothers have left, though we have five hundred teenage boys who wish to stay and fight my lady," said General Frederick Leiber, his helm under one arm as he followed Ottilia. "We're outfitting the fit ones with spears and bows as we speak, the rest are helping the porters." The general froze as Aldebrand approached and dismounted. "Count Aldebrand." He saluted smartly.

Aldebrand nodded to him. "See that those men we are arming are placed alongside the regulars, they stand no chance on their own."

"Already being done my lord," he nodded to Aldebrand's gun. "What count today sir?"

"Fifty six, two men lost, another three wounded," Aldebrand said, patting his gun gently. "A few more at the end of the bridge, all in all, not a poor tally, but we'll need it to be bloodier here at the walls."

"We'll make it so," General Frederick said.

"The artillery will be key to that, I'll go check it's got all the powder it needs." Ottilia turned to rush off, but he called out to stop her.

"No, Ottilia, I need a word with you, General, please go inspect the artillery."

"At once sir." He saluted again and strode off in the way only a noble born military officer could do.

Ottilia turned to face him, her brown hair cut to her neck, with bangs covering her cheeks. She'd taken a knife to it years ago, when she'd donned her soldier's uniform. Now a captain of the Hergig Guard, an elite regiment of swordsmen sword to the defence of the city, she'd kept the same hairstyle all along. "Ottilia," he sighed approaching her and putting a hand on her shoulder. "You need to calm down, running hither and thither is not going to make the city safer."

"Well you wouldn't let me come out and hunt the enemy with you," she reminded him. "What else am I to do when the barbarians of the north threaten our walls?"

"Rest a little, a worn out soldier is no use to anyone."

"Mother never rested when she defended the walls," Ottilia set her jaw tightly.

Aldebrand closed his eyes. His wife had had to take command of the city when a greenskin horde attacked fifteen years ago and he'd been away. She'd repelled the attack, but she'd died at the time. It had left a deep impression on their daughter, and he'd been unable to dissuade her of the notion of joining the army ever since. "You're mother died," he reminded her. "I want to ensure that you don't."

"She also fought."

"I'm not saying don't fight. I'm saying fight right, otherwise you'll die."

"I- yes, father," she bowed her head gently.

He reached out and cupped her cheek. "I half wish I'd sent you to Nuln, your brother would keep you safe there, but since you're here, go to the inner city, if the outer wall is breached we'll have to try and hold there."

She nodded. "Yes sir." She marched off, several men of her regiment, who loved her like a sister, falling in step behind her.

Aldebrand watched his daughter depart. Half of him hated that she was wearing that uniform, the other half admired how well she fit it. Her brother would be pleased, Konrad and Ottilia had always played soldier together when they were young, racing through the grounds of his estates just beyond the city walls. He'd emptied it of all treasures and valuables, bringing everything of worth into the city. He would restore it when they won. He made his way to the top of the wall, looking out over the defensive lines. The bridge was nearly prepared, the north east gate was reinforced harder. It stood at the top of a steep hillside that stretched down to a ford crossing the river fifty feet below the bridge. Getting up it would be hard enough, he trusted that that gate could hold. He was far more worried about the south gate. Rapid logging had cleared the nearby woods to allow sight for his archers. It was a logging gate, the road stretched south towards Talabecland and was flat and open. A heavy ditch was being dug in front of it, but still. He'd have to make that the next point of his inspection.

()()()

Wulfrik drove his blade through the back of the last surviving knight, relishing the feel of flesh and steel giving way before his blade. His army had been harassed by the soldiers of Hochland ever since they entered the Drakwald, it felt so good to finally get his hands on the miserable maggots. Some of them at least.

His men roared.

"Where to now oh great Wulfrik?" Cried one of his warriors, a cry quickly taken up by the others. "Where! Where! Where! Where to skulls, where to guts, where to glory, where to battle, where!"

Wulfrik raised his hand for silence, then pointed it deeper into the forest, to the west. "These milk sop southerners have their stone-built home to the west. These insects will pay the price for stinging us as we slaughter their entire hive."

His men roared and he continued his tirade. "We will tear down their homes, we will rip up their foundations, we will butcher the men in the battlefield, gut their wailing whelps in their cribs as they cry out for their mothers, and their mothers, their mothers we will take, we will take them and take them again, over and over until they learn that their place is on the ground with the dogs, no, lesser than dogs, they will pour us the wines and ales of victory into cups made from their husbands and sons and brothers! When we are done, we will sacrifice them on altars to our gods. To the Blood God, we will offer their skulls for his throne; to the Serpent God we will bear their still beating hearts, torn from their chests, to the Raven God we will give their last, dying gasps and to the Crow god we will deliver their guts!"

The unholy cries of anticipation tore through his army and Wulfrik smiled. But something gnawed at him. Something resembling a hunger, like he was going to a feast of bread and water, this battle would fill him, but it wouldn't be something he could enjoy. How could he, after all, he had the favour of the four gods of Chaos, in their name he had bested every contender from Naggaroth to Cathay. What could one stone city offer him to sate his bloodlust? He had hoped that, by racing ahead, he could reach the army of the Emperor, but these flies had stung him too much for him to not answer. He would be done with this city quickly, then set off again after their Emperor. He'd been denied a great target against the undead at the wall, but in the name of the Chaos gods he would offer them the finest champions this old world had to offer before it died like a guttered candle before the will of the Everchosen.

()()()

"So there is still no sign of the returned messengers?" He asked General Frederick. From atop the citadel of the inner city he could see the fortification works throughout the city. Side streets were locked down with palisades manned by spearmen, the grand avenues that stretched to and from the gates were guarded by heavy regiments and hellblaster volley guns which would turn them into paths of death for the invaders should they breach the walls. Three locations within the lower city walls were marshalling points for his troops: The Hochland College of Sorcery, where Jade Wizard Josef Baden would watch over the defences in the south of the city. To the northern end was where General Frederick was to be stationed in the battle, there he had placed half his knights to be ready to strike out and slaughter the enemy in the longer straighter streets. At the gates of the inner city itself, a large force of spearmen and flagellants, led by Warrior Priest Ethrak Mros would hold a rearguard action, allowing retreat to back behind the inner city walls, where he himself had deployed a full third of his army as a reserve.

"None," Frederick replied. "If they have alerted anyone of our plight, I know nothing of it."

Aldebrand nodded, fingers tightening on the stone balustrade. "We have to proceed as though they haven't heard, we can't rely on someone coming to save us, we must find a way to slaughter the enemy ourselves."

"Don't worry father," Ottilia said, stepping up beside him and taking his arm gently. "Hergig has held off assault before, and we will again."

"Never anything like what is coming," he whispered. "Take in the view, child, we may never see Hergig looking so proud again."

Ottilia was about to respond when a hammering rang on the door. "Enter."

A messenger from the outer gate entered and bowed. "My lord, captain Oswald reports that the bridge is ready to be detonated on your order."

"Excellent, inform him that I will be there shortly."

As they rode through the city, Aldebrand took in a final gaze of it at peace. White stone manors decorated the inner city, the homes of the wealthy of Hochland. Many now stood empty, their occupants having fled the city for the south with whatever wealth they could bring with them, now the luxury dwellings quartered many of his officers and elite soldiers, between the houses stood fine jewellers, florists and artists, with courtesan houses secluded in peaceful corners, catering to all the whims of the elite of the province.

As they descended into the lower city, he saw the proud streets give way to crookback alleys and side streets cast in shadow and mud, here the houses, still stone were simple designs, aimed to have as many crammed in the walls as possible, they were squashed together like beans in a tin, with butchers, fletchers, taverns and seedy brothels scattered among them. This wasn't the proudest city of the Empire, nor the best defended, nor occupied by the best and brightest. Compared to the great cities, Altdorf, Averheim, Nuln and Middenheim, Hergig was little more than a town, before the war perhaps fifteen thousand people had called it home, one tenth of the number that crowded into Altdorf. And unlike nearly all other cities, no Emperor had ever called it home. But it was _his_ home, and he had given his blood, sweat and sword for it. Was it really going to end now?"

At the far end of the bridge, he dismounted, approaching Captain Oswald as his men sat around, relieved at the job well done. "Captain, I hear you have good news for me?"

Oswald saluted sharply. "Yes sir!" He said. "The bridge is wired with enough explosives to bring it down on your order."

He clapped the captain on the shoulder. "Good man, Oswald, good man. Now prepare a rearguard, then start moving the worn men back into the city. They need to be rested for the battle to come and-" He paused. What was that? The wind passing through the trees, branches falling to the ground. "Captain, prepare the rearguard, quietly, Ottilia, fetch me my rifle, now." They both nodded curtly. Quietly, disguised by the movements of others, the captain got most of his men armed and alert, while those too tired to be effective were moved back along the bridge.

"Father," Ottilia handed him his rifle, and a pouch of powder and shot. "What's happening?"

He turned to her. His hand twitched toward her shoulder. No, he couldn't treat her as his daughter now, daughters were stubborn by nature, subordinates weren't. "Captain Ottilia, return to your regiment and prepare it for battle, now."

Ottilia clenched her jaw tightly and nodded, turning and hurrying back along the bridge. He trained his eyes on the forest edge. Was he just being paranoid? No, _something_ was there, just there... just there...

"Count Aldebrand," Captain Oswald muttered at his side. "The men are ready, what's wrong?"

There! A dark shape in the branches of a tree. In a single fluid motion, he raised his rifle and pulled the trigger. There was a loud crack and a figure fell from the tree, a tall figure, broad and dressed in fur. "Northmen!" He yelled!

At once his men were ready, but even as he was opening the slot in his rifle for a bullet, they broke from the tree, mad barbarians with crude and bloody axes. He blasted a hole right through the forehead of another one, loading up as crossbow bolts slammed into bodies and earth while swordsmen readied themselves. Again, he raised his rifle, took aim, and fired, the shot tearing through one warrior and ripping the axe arm of the one who'd been following too closely behind. One more shot, but as he slid the bullet in, a warrior vaulted over the barricades, leaping at him. Flipping his rifle around, he slammed it into the warrior's face, his nose exploding in a shower of blood. As the warrior clutched at his face in pain, Aldebrand raised a foot and brought it down on his neck, hearing the spin crack. At the same time he aimed and fired one handed, the shot at such close range that it ripped the head off the next warrior. The next one was upon him so fast he didn't have time to draw his Runefang, instead stepping back to avoid the axe swing, flipping his rifle in his hand and swinging it so hard at the warrior's back that a crack shot across the weapon. He cursed as he brought it down again, the warrior grunted and his gun snapped in two. He dropped the gun, stepping back calmly, in one motion he drew his sword and cut it across the warrior's stomach. Guts wriggled out of the easy opening like snakes while his torso fell backwards gracefully before the body crumpled. Already the warriors were overwhelming the rearguard, he saw Captain Oswarld fall, sword stuck in the chest of one enemy, spitting bloody curses as he was hacked to pieces.

"Retreat!" He ordered and the remaining soldiers, down a third of their number began falling back towards the bridge. His attendents were standing ready with his horse. "Take the horse back, now!" He wasn't going to mount and leave his men to die. At once they obeyed and one mounted the horse to ride it from the battle. There was no time for orderly retreat, his men tore down the bridge towards the centre, where a line of spearmen held, with handgunners and swordsmen just behind them. He glanced behind him and saw the enemy closing in fast, his men barely staying ahead. "Gun!" He roared. A gun was tossed through the air to him, he spun, kneeling, allowed two seconds for his men to pass, then rammed the gun forward, slamming the barrel into the stomach of a warrior and pulling the trigger. At such close range the warrior was picked up and carried several feet before landing, his stomach a bloody ruin. He passed the gun to a fleeing soldier who would take it to the new battle line. _They only need seconds._

He drew his sword again and stepped forward. He checked the first blow with his blade before whipping it around and cleaving his head in two, iron helm splitting like corn before his Runefang. With two great wide swings he killed three enemies and took the leg of another. A great hulking warrior, two heads taller than him and carrying a great axe in two meaty hand tried next. He ducked under the blow, taking the arm at the elbow. He spun under the next, one, putting two hands on his sword for an almighty cut that cleaved the warrior clean in two in a shower of blood and gore. Seconds bought, he retreated, fending off blows as he backpedalled, at every chance his sword slipped out of his defensive stance to kill a fore, but they were closing on three sides.

Then a wave of blue and red washed passed him, a small force of swordsmen drove the enemy back several feet before retreating again under the cover of shot and arrow and bolt. This was there best shot, if they just ran they'd all be butchered. He organised another sortie that pushed the enemy back a little further, allowing his men to recover wounded and weapons before they fell back like a retreating tide closer to the gate. When the enemy started gathering too much momentum, he led another assault, again driving the enemy back up the bridge several metres before they retreated once more.

Each sortie lost more men to wounds and death, despite those they'd so far recovered. But they allowed Aldebrand and his men to retreat to within range of the men on the gate. Under a withering storm of quarrel and shot, even the bloodthirsty barbarians of the north scurried out of range as the gate opened and Aldebrand and his men brought the remaining wounded back inside.

Of the two hundred men in the rearguard and on the bridge, eighty four were dead, and another sixty two wounded, half that number severely. He couldn't tell how many enemies had fallen, but it had to be more, surely.

Porters ran buckets of water over to them and he took several deep gulps from a ladle before passing it to one of his men. Then he took the steps up to the gatehouse two at a time, and looking out at the army emerging from the trees.

Thousands and thousands of barbarian warriors skulked from the trees like spectres of the wood, baying for blood and battle. From between them came dozens of trolls, some scaly and gray from their deep warrens, and others white as ice and blue as the sky, trolls of ice and snow. Great skinwolves and their werekin masters lumbered, slobber dripping in thick gloops from their fangs before they howled at the sky. One eyed fimir slunk out as well, eager for the anticipated slaughter. And finally, lumbering from behind, four great mammoths splintered the trees, marauders cradled in great howdahs on their backs.

He turned his attention back to the bridge, where the enemy were forming up again, a ram had been brought up, the warriors crowding around it, shield's raised against the anticipated storm of metal that would greet them. His men were ready, only waiting for the order to be given. "Hold," he said. "Give me your rifle soldier," he said to one handgunner. The soldier looked surprised, but handed it over without complaint. _Time to prove your status as the best marksman among the Empire's nobility._

He fired.

One explosion became two, then four, then eight, and in a second the bridge was wreathed in fire and black smoke. In a rain of debris, the middle third of the bridge collapsed, bringing hundreds of barbarian warriors to their deaths.

His men cheered at the sight, and the enemy roared in frustration.

This was just the beginning, already enemy forces were moving to attack the other gates, an others seemed to swarm around the ruined end of the bridge, perhaps planning something else.

"Stay ready," he ordered his men. "This is just the beginning."

 _Sigmar, give me the strength to see my men through this._


	3. The Siege Lines

The sun crept through the bare branches, illuminating the ground in droplets of light, revealing the past slaughter of the camp. After taking his watch, Valten had fallen asleep against a tree, Ghal Maraz resting in his lap gently. Looking up, he saw most of the knights were up before him, some oiling blades, others readying their horses and yet more keeping watch out into the forest.

The pyre had burned out by now, a few lengths of bone all that indicated that bodies once lay there. Well, the ashes and the stench of cooked flesh.

He closed his eyes and thought again of Erich. His friend had been with him through all the running battles on the Nordland Coast, was one of the few survivors when Luthor Huss had found them, had fought at his side at Alderfen, now taken and butchered by beastmen, like an animal. He curled his fingers into a fist around the golden haft of Ghal Maraz. He was supposed to stop this, wasn't he, he was supposed to protect them, to stand between them and those who would do them harm. But if he couldn't protect even his friends...

"We should get moving, the Emperor can't wait for us, and the longer we wait the greater the danger between us and him."

Emil nodded, glancing at the shadows of the trees. "I agree, we should move before noon."

"Lord Valten," one of the Templarshad approached him, bowing his head in respect. "Lord, if it please you... my horse is yours to ride back to the camp."

"It does not please me," he muttered, getting to his feet. _Be nicer._ "Keep your horse, knight, my own is in the camp, and I'm not so sure he would forgive me were I to ride another."

The knight chucked. "So be it, my lord."

The horse had been a gift from the Emperor, the finest steed in the Imperial Menagerie some said, he doubted it, but the pure white stallion had proven it's worth to him on the retreat, it knew and was unafraid of war, and was capable of holding his significant armoured weight with ease.

Still, it was fitting that the armoured knights towered over his form as they made their way out of the ruined camp and towards the road which headed south, he was still their prisoner in invisible chains.

They walked for hours, the trees seeming to stare at them as they passed, and he kept Ghal Maraz ready, who could tell whether it was the trees or darker forces lurking within them. "Hold!" Came a call from the head of the column, "make ready, disturbance on the road."

Before any of the knights could stop him, Valten strode forwards. Four men of the empire lay on the road, bloody and broken. "Soldiers of Hochland," Emil muttered, swinging down from his rough brown courser and approaching the men. "Scouts by the look of them, still warm too, this happened recently." He knelt beside one man lying face down on the road. "Poor bloody waste, wouldn't you say?"

"I'd say they were probably killed by the beasts we drove from the camp," Valten muttered. He approached a different man who lay propped against a tree, a spear sticking from his stomach. _Even in victory I cause death, what am I doing wrong?_

He reached out to touch the man's forehead. When he did so, his eyes fluttered, only a little. "Hey," he said, reaching out and shaking the man gently on the shoulder. A definite flutter. "This one's still alive." He needed help. He pressed on the wound, trying to staunch the damage a little. "I need help?"

"This one's on death's door Herald, there's nothing to be done."

"Damn you all!" He cursed. Why wouldn't anyone do anything about this, Chaos, anything?!

The soldier was gasping lightly, his lips fluttering, wisps of breath pushing between them. He was trying to say something. Valten leant in close, pulling his hair behind his ear.

"Hergig," the soldier whispered. "Hergig... surrounded... help..."

"Hergig?" Valten asked.

The soldier gave one last twitch before his head lolled forward. "Damnation!" He got to his feet.

"Come sir, we should keep moving the things that did this could still be-" Valten swatted the knight's armoured gauntlet of his shoulder.

"Hergig?" He demanded, turning to the knights. "What is it?"

"A... city," one replied hesitantly.

"I gathered that much fool, I doubt a scout would be coming to plead for help for a village with his dying breath. What city?"

Emil came forward on his horse. "Hergig is the capital of Hochland, probably three day's march, as the crow flies."

"This man said the city was surrounded," Valten said, gesturing to the corpse.

"Surround Hergig?" One knight said, shaking his head. "Hergig is not over large, but to surround and truly threaten it, it must be quite a force. Thousand strong at least."

"Tens of thousands, Count Aldebrand had most of his army with him on his retreat, nothing less than that would endanger the city."

"Tens of thousands," Valten turned and looked at the bodies. Behind him the knights continued their pointless discussion about numbers and dangers. They argued over whether Hergig would be able to hold, wondered about the condition of the Hochland army, but the one thing they agreed upon was that they should return to the Emperor and inform him of the situation, that he might decide what to do.

Why bother, he already knew what the Emperor would do, he would continue the retreat, it was inevitable, he had too many soldiers to worry about to waste any traversing a dangerous forest to defend a not so important city that might not even still stand. And these knights, their attitude was just like Luthor Huss, sit, wait, learn and lose. No longer.

He turned to them. "I'm going," he said flatly.

They looked at him surprised, as though they'd forgotten he'd been standing there.

"Going?"

He nodded. "I'm going to Hergig, I'm going to save the city."

They glanced to each other like he was mad as a crow. "Sir... Herald... there are only forty of us."

"And not a man among you, I'm aware. Go on, carry on to Franz, but I am tired of refusing to fight, and I will not be held back any longer." He raised Ghal Maraz. "Hergig shall be the anvil upon which Ghal Maraz smites the enemy."

Emil swung down from his horse and strode over. "Herald," he breathed softly, placing his hand on his shoulder like a father would to an angry son. "I know you grieve for your friend, but losing yourself in the fire of a meaningless battle will not bring them back."

"I have no intention of losing myself, but if I'd been allowed to fight from the beginning, my friend may still be alive, and Sigmar knows how many others as well."

"But Herald,"

"Don't 'Herald' me, Witch Hunter, I am the head of the Cult of Sigmar, YOUR commander. I will no longer sit idle. I will go to Hergig and do all that I can to save it, if there is anything left to save. Perhaps there won't be, but I won't abandon the thousands of people there to their fate. You can either come with me, or point the way and return to the army of Franz while I go myself."

Emil looked at him curiously, clearly not expecting such an outburst. Then he nodded. "Let me speak to the men."

Valten waited impatiently as Emil talked with the knights and priests. Finally, after far too long a wait, Emil returned. "The men will return to the Emperor and report your decision. I will guide you to Hergig, just the two of us can move with speed and subtlety and hopefully avoid entanglements."

Valten nodded. "Good." As soon as they were able, the two left, Emil leaving his horse with the knights so they might traverse directly through the forest.

* * *

He smelt the smoke and blood long before they came into sight of the city itself. Every step took them deeper into danger, and Emil tried time and again to get him to turn around. But he would hear none of it, and as they got closer, and heard the sounds of battle and destruction, he was only spurred on to move faster, branches snapping and leaves crunching under his gromril boot.

They reached the end of a wooded cliff overlooking the city and he froze at the sight awaiting them.

The city was under total assault. Directly ahead was a broken bridge, stone shattered and fallen into a gulley, corpses strewn across the lengths that remained, riddled with arrows, bullets and bolts. To the south, the gulley lazily flowed down towards a stream that circles the city, the hovels and huts along the length of it, burned and broken. Up the other side an army of barbarians was trying to assault the city, moving up the hill under cover of their shields. The corpse of what looked like a great mammoth was slumped to one side. Missiles from the walls rained down on the attackers every time they got near, driving them back. To the north, another was under deadly assault, were the enemy already in? It seemed so, the enemy seemed to be moving towards it, and black smoke twisted up into the air from the city just behind. Missiles poured over the walls, explosive rockets from mortars and rocket batteries were slung out and detonated in the midst of enemy forces. At the same time, from their ramshackle camps, strange daemon engines fired back at the city, particularly at the gates.

"They're nearly lost," Emil said. "There's nothing we can do."

"They _are_ lost as long as we continue to think that way!" Valten declared. There had to be something he could do. There! The impetuous nature of the northmen was their undoing, only a light guard was watching over their war machines, a light guard that would be nothing before him. "Run if you want, Witch Hunter, but as long as there's something I can do to help them, I won't." Finding an easy way down would take too long, every second would be more fallen friends. Instead he crouched down and, using his hand to steady himself, slid down the cliff.

He hit hard at the bottom, tucking and rolling with a grunt. The crude enemy camp was set up before him, all animal hide, and tent props that looked to be planks ripped from ships. As he'd see above, they were all but deserted. He pushed himself to his feet, unhooking Ghal Maraz from his belt and giving it a few twirls. The weapon hissed through the air, eager to bring death to the northmen. He wouldn't disappoint it.

He made his way through the camp, towards where the enemy war machines were set up at the base of the edge of the gulley. Two of them were pouring fire towards the northern gate, where the enemy were close to breaking through. They needed his intervention more. With a crackling hiss, another blast of eldritch energy carved through the air toward the gate. The crews, a dozen stunted men, dwarfs by the looks of them, though twisted with fangs and tusks, with serrated armour carving into their flesh. Chaos Dwarfs. He'd heard of them, though never seen one. "For Sigmar," he whispered, and charged.

The first one didn't notice as he split his skull with Ghal Maraz, the shower of blood bone and brain hadn't hit the floor before he swung wide and hard with the hammer again. The next dwarf was sent flying off the edge of the gulley with a snarl. The others had turned to him by this point, but they were not match. Perhaps if they'd attacked him together, they'd have been able to swarm him effectively enough to find a chink in his armour, but they scattered, and he hunted them down one by one, ending their lives with strikes of Ghal Maraz.

The sound of metal on flesh made him turn. "Took you long enough." Emil drew his sword across the throat of the warrior he held locked in a tight grip.

"And you didn't take long enough," Emil growled. "If I hadn't followed you, and killed the sentries, the enemy army would be on its way here right now. You're good, but not that good." He dropped the warrior and strode over, blood trickling down his sword. "And what now?"

"I've stopped the artillery," Valten began.

"Have you?" With a great roar, one of the cannons let off a blast so powerful that the canon itself shot back ten feet. The blast crackled through the air and slammed into the wall by the north gate, blasting chunks of masonry to the ground. "These machines are inhabited with deamons, the crew is here to keep them in check, not to operate the weapon. It must be destroyed, or we'll be dealing with daemons as well as an army."

Valten looked at the two twisted cannons, skeins of flesh and meat pulled pulsing and twisting, writhing and shaking. The cannon still at the edge of the gulley was about to fire. He charged, placing both his palms on the metal, and pushing with all his might. His boots dug into the dirt, but with a final heave, he sent the canon over the edge of the gulley. It seemed to cry out as it spun through the air, and a great gust of hot air spiralled up from it as it shattered on the rocks in the stream.

"Sigmar's breath!" Emil cursed. "Do you want to bring the entire horde down on us?"

Valten hadn't heard, instead he'd raced to the other cannon and started pushing. He felt something lash from the pulsing war machine, deflecting off his armour but leaving buzzing warmth behind that spread to his gut. But it wasn't a bad warmth at all, more the warmth of anticipation that came before laying with a woman in a soft feather bed. _It can be yours,_ something whispered within his very skull. _Yours forever, give in accept it_. "A pitiful attempt at luring me to you," he grunted back as he heaved the cannon closer to the gulley edge. "I am Sigmar's chosen, I won't be so easily swayed daemon."

 _Are you,_ the machine chuckled softly. _Are you truly his chosen, if so, why could you only get one of his witch hunters to come with you?_ He growled as Emil joined him to push the machine to the gulley edge. _They don't believe it, you're just a tool, a toy, a puppet, we can give you so much more_. With a final roar, Valten heaved and the second hellcannon tumbled to its demise.

He shook his head to clear it of the last of the whispers that had turned to screams in his mind. "That should give that gate a fighting chance," he said.

"And the other one?" Emil asked, "the one that has already been broken?"

Valten cracked a smile, resting Ghal Maraz on his shoulder. "That's our way inside."


	4. The Outer City

Emil cursed that such dark times had come when he was well past his physical prime. Even though he was clad in heavy plate, Valten pulled ahead of him as they charged towards the gate. The Herald was almost super human in that armour, moving faster than Emil had seen any knight run afoot. He'd been sceptical at first, but there was something about Valten, something to stir his hardened heart.

And it was the same here. With their eagerness to bring their savagery upon the city, only a few reluctant warriors stood guard by the broken gate. Valten fell upon them like a golden whirlwind, shattering skull and spilling organs on the floor, painting the ground like a master artist. Like he was twirling across an ice field, Valten spun, dodging some blows, absorbing others and lashing out with his own. One enemy backed away from the Herald in fear and Emil ran him through from behind. _Has he truly come to save us?_

Valten smiled at him, like the fight was no exertion to him at all, against the crumbling grey walls and dust clouds he seemed to shine. "You followed."

Emil grunted. "I can't well leave you now, can I?"

Valten laughed. "If you want, leave, Sigmar knows we've carved a bloody path out of here." Emil simply strode forward. "Then let's go," the turned to the splintered bridge and the fires beyond.

Thankfully Valten didn't simply rush ahead, and proceeded with more care. The smell of smoke and blood filled them, crumbling buildings, crackling flames, the distant clashing of blade on blade and screams of rage and pain pierced their ears. "Where are the enemy?" Valten asked.

"If we're going to find out, we need to be higher," Emil replied. "There," he pointed up towards the walls of the upper levels of the city. "Just below the walls, that bluff of houses, from there, we can see where we need to be." Valten nodded slowly, staring straight down the burning street. He gently rested his fingers on Valten's cold armour. "The barbarians rush ahead, if we follow them, we won't achieve anything, we need to go where we are needed, for that we need to be able to see." Thankfully, Valten seemed to listen, and followed him towards the inner city, away from the seeming path of most of the enemy warriors.

The streets had been the sight of some kind of battle, with soldiers, militia and barbarians littering the floor. It seemed that the barbarians had suffered more, but the lack of defenders seemed to mean that they were pushed back from this quarter of the city.

They made it to the rise he had identified without interruption. Good, but bad too, this whole portion of the city seemed deserted, completely open if more enemy forces were committed to this front. The whole lower city was in chaos, smoke twisted into the sky, fires close to the walls guttered out around ruined buildings, but those in the centre of the lower city were burning hot and wild, the smoke was black and thick, and in the gaps between buildings, he saw that masses of bodies were flowing to and fro. In some places the battle had scaled to the top of the buildings, where dark figures clashed before the flames. "There," he said, pointing to a clash that was occurring close to the inner wall.

"Why there, the enemy seem to be more focussed there?" Valten pointed deeper into the inner city.

"But if they break through near the wall they could surround all forces still in the lower city, that could doom the city, depending on how many there are, but we don't have that knowledge."

Valted nodded. "Well reasoned, what path should we take?"

"Across the rooftops, it's the most direct, and we're less likely to get lost."

Valten cocked an eyebrow. "You do that much?"

Emil grunted. "I've been involved in a few chases across rooftops," _perhaps twenty years ago mind._

"Let's go then!"

They clambered down onto the rooftops below them and began their charge.

Despite the fact that he had opposed even coming to the city, Emil could feel the old thrill of the hunt rushing through his veins again, like he had when he'd been a young hunter, chasing hedge wizards and cultists through the Empire's towns. That had been before he'd seen that for every cult and fell witch he brought low, another two pledged themselves to darkness and his eternal war continued.

Valten matched him step for step, his youth making up for Emil's experience hurtling across rooftops. An imperial swordsman was struggling to hold against a barbarian raining blow after blow on his shield and armour. Not wanting to waste a shot, and not having the time to aim a sword strike, Emil tucked in and drove the point of his shoulder into the barbarian's undefended rib cage. With a grunt and flailing limbs, the barbarians twisted to the earth, landing, broken, on the cobbles, where more soldiers and barbarians were clashing. "T-thank you," the soldier grunted, staggering upward, shield arm held loosely. Something on the back of his neck made Emil twist.

A great skin wolf, eight feet of sinew, muscle and slobber was bounding towards them. It made the final leap, fangs outstretched to rip them apart. Emil shoved the soldier down, tucked under the wolf and used his shoulders to guide the wolf away, feeling tearing pain lance along his back as he shoved the skin wolf away. He stared down the wolf as Valten came to his side. He grabbed the Herald's arm as he made to step forward. "Save the soldiers herald, this is my fight."

Valten looked at him for a second, then nodded and vaulted down over the side of the building to help the soldiers, the soldier they had saved followed more cautiously, leaving Emil alone with the skin wolf. Blood dripped from the beast's claws, blood from his back no doubt, the stinging pain was still there, but he had long learned to endure pain while fighting the horrors of the world. He drew his silvered sword and dropped into stance.

The beast charged forward, gauging the momentum, he was able to sidestep it and cut across the side of the beast. His sword didn't cut deep enough to hobble the beast, but he drew blood, and that was enough to bring a grin to his face. He had one more shot ready, he'd have to time it right or he'd waste it, and he couldn't afford to waste it.

After shaking off the pain of Emil's strike, the beast leapt forward again. This time though, it landed before Emil and met his sword strike with a wide swing of a muscular arm. Emil's sword cut deep and got stuck, the power of the arm ripping it from his fingers. Emil dropped to the ground before rolling away and scrambling to his feet, drawing his knife from his boot as he did so. And skittering back towards the edge of the building.

Silver sword still dug in its arm, the skin wolf stalked towards him, perhaps the pain was enough to put it off any more reckless attacks. But that would also be the beast's downfall. Drawing his pistol he took aim and fired, the gun kicking back in his head and the silver ball slamming into the chest of the beast, matting the fur with blood and making it roar in pain. Caution forgotten, it charged. Emil ducked under the swing of it's claws, seized the handle of his sword and, with all his might, levered the beast over the edge. He yanked his sword free as the skinwolf howled and toppled over the edge. It fell onto the cobbles, stunned. Flipping his sword into a reverse grip, he dropped down, driving the point through the beast's skull. The mass of muscle and fur twitched once, twice, then fell still. He drew his sword and ran around the building to where the soldiers were fighting, arriving just in time to see the last enemy fall under Ghal Maraz.

The soldiers observed Valten with awe and Emil could see why. Golden hair shining in the dust, hammer gleaming, enemies strewn around him, he was the hero of dreams and sagas, come to them in their darkest hour.

"Who are you?" A woman with cropped brown hair clad in a captain's uniform stalked over, arms and armour caked in blood. She held her sword tightly, with a confidence built from experience.

"Valten," Valten replied unhelpfully.

"He is the Herald of Sigmar," Emil added, "he has come to aid the city."

Some of the swordsmen whispered to themselves, but the woman-captain only turned her gaze upon him. "And you?"

Emil nodded at Valten. "I'm here to aid him."

The captain looked at them fiercely. "You could've come sooner," she growled. "As it is, the enemy are all over the lower city, we came out of cover the retreat of any wounded we could find."

"How many have you saved?" Valten asked.

"The barbarians of the north don't leave _wounded_ ," the captain replied. "The lower city is lost, we have to return to the middle city, now!"

"A retreat?" Valten sounded surprised.

"I can't order you to do anything, if you want to stay out here, do so, but if the order hasn't been given for all remaining units to retreat it soon will be." She bent down and helped a swordsman, whose sword arm was a gone, a bloody stump all that remained of it, to his feet. "Come, Hergig Guard, the middle city still needs us."

"Wait!" Valten called, and they all turned to him, except the captain who kept moving. "What's your name?"

That made her pause. She turned to him, glancing over the arm draped over her shoulder. "Ottilia."

Valten nodded. "We're coming with you Ottilia." Emil nodded, gritting his teeth through the pain in his shoulder.

The swordsmen of Hochland formed up, the wounded in the middle of a loose square as they advanced through the streets towards the gate to the middle city.

The small flight of steps leading up to the gate to the middle city were the site of a bitter fight, as the blue armoured soldiers of Hochland fought to hold the gate to allow the various regiments scattered across the lower city to retreat. "Hochland Guard, front ranks forward, backward ranks watch the wounded!" Ottilia cried. With a speed that only a disciplined infantry regiment could achieve, the square folded into two battlelines. Valten moved into the front but Emil, the pain in his back getting worse and worse, held back with the rear lines. In a savage assault, Ottilia's regiment carved a bloody path through the disorganised marauders, enabling the halberdiers holding the steps to drive their enemies out, and artillery crews to regain the two hellblaster volley guns at the top of the steps.

With no difficulty, the medley of regiments folded into a strong hardpoint, with stragglers joining them from other streets. Emil, feeling the gashes on his back starting to burn like a hot iron, joined the wounded in moving into the city.

Just inside the wall, the Elector had set up a large medical area, houses and newly erected tents swarming with healers, doctors and priestesses of Shallya tending to the wounded and sending the healed deeper into the city to make way for others. Seeing Emil carrying the one armed soldier, two others ran over and took him, while a Priestess of Shallya took one look at his back and dragged him over to a tent. "These were caused by-" he began.

"I know, a skin wolf," a matronly priestess nodded grimly. "I've seen enough of that. We'll douse them with holy water to begin with, we need to prevent any rot from setting in. He nodded, stripped off his torn coat and bloody shirt and set his jaw. He'd received this treatment enough to know that it would cause him sufficient pain. He cried out as the steaming holy water ran over his back, soaking into his wounds. Leaving his back stinging, but after the initial pain he felt a sense of relief in his bones.

He sighed and sat back as fresh bandages were wrapped around his body to cover the wound. "Now, up with you, more require our attention." Emil nodded, snatching up his shirt and coat and walking towards the inner city, but something caught his eye – soldiers arguing beside the gate. He changed direction and stalked over, pulling his coat on.

"I've tried three times, it won't work captain!"

"Find a way, or we're all dead, you hear me!"

"What's going on here?" He demanded. Both looked to him and snapped to attention. The garb of a witch hunter could inspire useful obedience in the common man.

"It's the portcullis," the captain growled, jerking his thumb up at the iron fangs hanging in the gate. "It's jammed, we can't get it to work."

Emil cursed. If the gate couldn't shut, they were all lost.

"Then go and find the engineers," he told them, get them up there now!" He belted his coat shut, drew his sword and made for the open gate.

"Where are you going?" The captain demanded.

"To buy you what time you can." Damn his injuries, he could still swing a sword and shoot his pistols, he could help hold the enemy back until the gate worked.

He saw Valten standing in line with what remained of Captain Ottilia's swordsmen, awaiting the next assault. The next wave of barbarians were massing down the street, readying their charge.

"Herald," he shouldered his way through to Valten, who glanced at him, a wry smile on his face.

"Still on your feet old man."

He grunted. "For now, but we have a problem, the-" His words were drowned out by a thundering crack as the Hellblaster volley guns let rip, heavy iron balls tearing bloody holes in the barbarians as they charged.

"Tell me after the next wave," he said. "Come on men of Hergig, time to throw the bastards back again!" The men roared their approval and readied themselves. Another crack sounded as more blasts from the artillery tore shreds from the charging warriors. Emil got into stance and readied.

The enemy fell on them with ferocious abandon, wild fury meeting cold judgement, and was found wanting. The barbarians were cut to ribbons by the disciplined state troops and sent reeling. A final blast from the handgunners on the walls sent them fleeing. More wounded and dead were carried back into the city and the rest reformed again. Valten clapped some of the men on the back before turning to Emil, who was busy wiping his sword clean.

"What was it you wanted?"

"The gate," he muttered, keeping his voice low to prevent the soldiers from overhearing. "The engineers are struggling to close it. And these men are close to breaking, look at them." Soon there wouldn't be enough of them to hold this strongpoint, and the enemy would break through. And precious few stragglers were reaching the gate now."

"How long do they need?" Valten asked, concern etched on his face.

"As long as possible."

He nodded.

"More enemies approaching!" Captain Ottilia called. "Form up!"

The weary soldiers stepped back into line, raising their shields again.

"They won't hold," Emil noted, this approaching wave was larger than the one before it."

"They won't have to." Valten declared, striding forwards, as he parted the line he turned back to the soldiers. "Sit this one out men," he grinned at them. "I need to stretch a little." With that he turned and charged the approaching horde."

"Hold your ground!" Ottilia ordered as a few of her men made to follow him. "What the bloody hell is he doing?"

"Being a bloody hero," Emil growled. "Damn it all Herald, keep your men here!" He broke through the ranks and charged after Valten.

As Valten and the wave of warriors approaches, time seemed to slow. But then, with a great crash, Valten tore into them, scattering and slaying with abandon. Many barbarians turned to follow and kill the savage hero, more continued. Emil drew to a halt, raised his sword and prepared to meet them.

As one warrior brought his axe down, Emil stepped to one side and sliced his head off with a neat stroke, he followed through the movement with a thrust into the next warrior. He drew his sword out and sidestepped, hooking his sword under the blade of another axe and ripping it from the next warrior's hands, with a swift reverse cut he cut one leg off at the shin and impaling the next one through the chest. He continued with the rhythm of the fight, cutting, slicing and thrusting through the enemy that came to him, moving between them deftly, making sure he only ever had one in a position to attack him. When one warrior was able to disarm him with a heavy blow of a crude, ugly greatsword, Emil stepped in, drew his pistol and rammed it into the warrior's snarling mouth. The warrior barely had time to raise his eyebrows in alarm before he pulled the trigger, blasting brain, bone and red mist into the air behind him. He dropped low as another warrior tried to attack him, the axe instead burying in the dead warrior's chest, giving Emil a chance to snatch up his blade and drive it up between the warrior's legs. With an unbecoming squeal the warrior fell to the ground. Emil stowed the pistol away and charged into the fight anew. He caught up to Valten who was laying about him with abandon. He fell into step with the herald and turned his back to him. They covered each other and created a whirling circle of death in the middle of the street until they stood alone among the dead and fleeing.

When the immediacy of the combat fell from him, Emil could feel the exhaustion in his muscles, and his back injuries were stinging again. He'd need to get them checked out again back at the gate. Valten turned to him, grinning widely. "Not bad old man, not bad at all."

He panted heavily, grunting in reply. Then his eyes went wide. A survivor had clambered to his feet and was approaching Valten, curved, cruel dagger raised in one hand.

A flash of steel, the arm clutching the dagger was on the floor in a shower of blood. Another flash, the head fell to the floor and the rest of the body followed. Captain Ottilia stood to one side. She looked at Valten, wide eyed in wonder. "How?" She asked simply. "... how?"

A twitch of movement caught Emil's gaze. In a single motion he drew his second pistol and put a hole through the chest of another barbarians sneaking out from between a tavern and a fishmongers. "Questions for another time," Emil said, sheathing his sword and drawing out powder and shot to reload his weapons. "How is the gate?"

Ottilia shook herself. "Operational," she said simply, "we've fixed the problem and are ready to shut them. I came to... inform you."

Valten nodded. "Then we go."

As they approached the gate Emil saw the hellblasters had been brought inside and only a thin rearguard remained. "We're ready to close captain, come on!" One soldier cried.

"Behind you!"

Emil twisted. More barbarians were charging. Valten made to charge again but he pressed his hand to the Herald's breastplate. "No, Herald, we need to get inside so they can shut the gate." Valten nodded, disappointed, and followed them.

The portcullis rattled down but the barbarians kept charging. As it slammed into the ground, one barbarian was unable to stop his charge and fell into it, roaring in a blood rage. Moving fast enough to catch a fly, Valten snatched hold of the barbarian's neck through the grate and crushed it.

They turned and stepped into the city only to find that everyone, priest, doctor, engineer and soldier had formed a semi circle, looking at them, and particularly Valten, with awe. Ottilia quietly moved off to join her men.

"Make way!" A voice called and the circle parted. A man, tall, thin, with brown hair falling to his neck and a hunting hawk on one shoulder approached. Across the other shoulder rested a Hochland Long Rifle and in a jewelled scabbard was a magnificent blade of dwarfen make. A runefang.

"Elector Count Aldebrand." Valten bowed his head in respect.

Count Aldebrand nodded back in respect. "Herald of Sigmar," he replied. "What are you doing here?"

Valten looked from the Count to the people, looking at the awe, the hope and the desperation in the eyes of every person there. _Say something inspirational._

"I'm here to save you."

* * *

Luregar Raven-Caller stalked through the broken remains of the lower city, his cloak of woven feathers ruffling about his shoulders as he made his way to the main thoroughfare of the lower city. The smell of blood hung deliciously in the air and he hoped that Wulfrik wasn't too enamoured with the blood god at the moment, or else there would be no getting through to him.

Waiting in a small circle were his elite, armoured warriors, gleaming in purple plate. As other warriors partook in the ale, wine, gold and girls of this city that were their prizes, his warriors stood calm, they were no blood-drunk warriors of Khorne, or depraved scion of Slaanesh, his warriors of Tzeentch were capable of more self control. These warriors had been with him since traversing the wastes of the north, they had found him a witness that would tell him whether he'd made the right choice coming here, if his visions had been true, or if he'd wasted his time, coming here in the aftermath of Wulfrik's invasion rather than contributing to the wider war.

"Master," one of his warriors bowed his head, his voice distorted by the twisted helmet clasped over his head. "One of those men claims to have seen what you're looking for."

Luregar shook his head. "I won't be stopped by this, my master waits, bring him to me.

One of his warriors nodded and strode forward. Seizing the warrior in question from between the legs of a captured greeenlander wife – another warrior quickly took his place – and dragged him over and dropped him to the grimy cobbles of the street.

"What are you-" He began to roar but paled when he saw Luregar hanging over him.

"This is the one?" He asked.

"Yes master," his warrior replied, all but ignoring the warrior between them. "He claimed to have seen the warrior."

"Let's see." He fished a small raven skull from his cloak. He'd cracked the creature out of its egg early, it was still alive, twitching in its premature birth before he'd twisted it's head off its newborn body. Now it served a greater purpose than it ever would have in life. He pressed the raven skull to the warrior's forehead. In a flash he saw what he wanted: A mass of warriors charging towards the enemy around the gate; a single warrior had charged out to meet them, a warrior clad in gleaming dwarf-steel charged out to meet them; a golden hammer in his hand, unstoppable, unkillable, but definitely here.

He took the skull back and the warrior fell to the ground, eyes drained of life and soul. "It seems we've come to the right place." Leaving the corpse behind, he turned and swept out of the city.

Outside the ruckuss of the city, where the warriors were celebrating as though they had taken the whole city rather than simply the bottom third, Luregar made his way towards a burned out mill that he had taken for his own and was guarded by more of his armoured warriors. For they had no interest in loot and spoils, they had come to this city, nay, had guided this army to this city for a higher purpose.

"Wait here," he told his guards and stepped inside. Alone in the smoky wooden hut, he drew out his raven skull again. Focussing on it intently, closed his eyes and reached out to hear his master's call. "Master," he whispered, not daring to speak too loud when in communication with a being, no – a force, so far above him. "You were right, the warrior, the boy the men of the south call "herald" has come to this city as you predicted. But now I need your guidance once again. I cannot face him, I lack enough of your blessings to hold my own. What must I do? How do I bring this one low so that he may never threaten the plans of you or your fellow gods?"

Like a thousand murders of ravens tearing through a thousand forests while a thousand snakes hissed from a thousand wells and a thousand owls hooted in a thousand haunted nights, his master sent forth his reply. "I have already sent it to you, my little plaything," the command of Tzeentch filled his skull. "The Wanderer was cursed to challenge the greatest foes in the world. Prod the beast towards my prey, and have him destroy this false child." Like a great wave, now that he was done, his will returned to wherever he so chose.

Of course he was foolish. Why else would Wulfrik have come here, to this tiny spec of a city, rather than have gone after the Emperor's army for a greater share of the glory? Because the gods had directed him to a greater prize, likely without a brute like Wulfrik even knowing it in his own tiny mind. Well now he would just have to go and alert him to it. No doubt he would welcome the challenge.

He opened to door to the little wooden cabin. "Take me to the wanderer."

He found the wanderer surrounded by his champion berserkers, celebrating the bloodshed and basking in the flickering shine of a burning church of Sigmar. He knew better than to try and interrupt Wulfrik while he was celebrating, so he waited until the warriors dispersed, singing their great war chants, leaving the wanderer alone among the flames and flickering shadows. Great footfalls and the sun suddenly being blocked made him twist around. A great war mammoth was being driven down the streets, a huge shrine to Chaos carried on its back.

A bellowing laughter rumbled from Wulfrik, who approached, his great sword rested softly on one shoulder. "Still don't like my beasts, do you, bird-man," he stated.

"Oh mighty wanderer," he bowed at the waist. Wulfrik may not be his master, but the great warrior could slice him in half easier than he could brain a bird. "Do you relish in this slaughter?"

"Slaughter?" Wulfrik asked, spinning his sword deftly before slamming it into the ground, driving right through the stones in the road, parting them like softly fallen snowflakes. "This wasn't slaughter, this was simple butchery, there wasn't even any sport in it." Luregar thought it best not to point out the stubborn defence that the enemy had put up. Things like that meant little to Wulfrik, for he cared for the individual kill, the single fight that was the eye of the storm, and so far he had been denied. "This great Count will not even come out to face me!"

"Why would he, oh mighty Wanderer, for he knows he would fall like wheat before the scythe, in truth, that man is no worthy challenger for one such as yourself."

Wulfrik growled, his great whiskers rustling in discontentment. "But there may be yet another way to satiate your lust for battle."

Wulfrik seized him by the front and dragged Luregar so that his face was inches from the warlord's.

"Tell me," he said. "Now!"

"Yes Lord," Luregar replied, not reacting to the violent seizure. "Many men report seeing a warrior in great steel plate alongside the defenders, with glimmering golden hair, he drove back entire waves alone, slaying champions and warriors like they meant nothing to him. I believe that it is thanks to this man alone that your forces did not sweep over the enemy like a wave and destroy them before your presence even bloodied the field."

Wulfrik seemed at least passably interested in what he had to say. "My warriors will invent any kind of story to incur my interest. They seem to think that leading me to a worthy challenge will make them a berserker, rather than claiming skulls of their own. Why should I believe you any better, sorcerer?"

"Because I have seen through the eyes of one of your men, he speaks the truth. A greater truth than he knew. You remember the tales from the survivors of the Nordland Coast, and Alderfen?"

Survivors had straggled back to the Everchosen's army from those raiders ever since Lord Archaon led his army into the south. Those that had survived the Everchosen's wrath had spread the tales, the tales of the great warrior who had emerged to save them. Those from the villages and towns that they had already put to the torch spoke of the Warrior with the Emperor's Hammer. His master had put them all together and spun the web of fate, to lead that warrior here.

"I have heard. This so called 'Herald of Sigmar', what of him?"

"It is he, my lord. The Herald of Sigmar is in this city, the pinnacle of champions for you to hunt. Can you imagine a greater prize to offer the gods than the herald of their greatest enemy?"

Wulrik lowered Luregar to the ground. Slowly a wide grin split his features.

It was as his master had intended. This herald was a great warrior, with much power on his side, his master had foreseen that, given time, he would become an even greater threat, one that had the potential to halt the Dark Gods in their ambitions, who could thwart their aims and bring an end to this greatest invasion of all. So, in his master's name, he had lead Wulfrik the Wanderer here, luring the herald to come join them, so that the Wanderer, a warrior with skill almost unmatched among the mortal followers of chaos, could destroy him before he had a chance to become a threat. To become the one thing that the Chaos gods feared.


	5. The Counterattack

"Father, if we let the enemy rest then they'll attack us in full as soon as the sun rises, we should use the night to strike first."

"With what men, Ottilia?" Count Aldebrand fixed his daughter with a stern glare. "Half the army is either wounded, exhausted or both. We don't have the men to make a meaningful strike."

"My Lord," Valten stepped forward. Instinctively the generals and captains around the table pulled away from him. "I believe that captain Ottilia is right, we can't let the enemy get comfortable in the city, we should keep them on edge, slip out and slaughter as many as we can before retreating."

Several of the captains around the table, one of them missing an arm and an eye, nodded fiercely, their desire for revenge overriding their injuries. "We have the wall, and a night of rest for ourselves," Aldebrand countered, "no, we wait, any sally will only weaken forces we'll need for tomorrow."

"My lord, the men have only been pushed back since this war began, let them slip out and spill enemy blood," Captain Ordrich said. His unit of halberdiers had been bloodily mauled at the outer gate and were thirsty for revenge.

"No," Aldebrand declared stepping away from them. "I have given my orders, watches will be maintained throughout the night, the wounded and new militiamen will be at the keep and everyone else will get what rest they can. So I have ordered." He looked around at all the captains and generals of the Hochland army. "Am I clear?"

"Yes, my lord," the men replied before dispersing.

Valten sighed and made his way over to the wall. The enemy were resting in the ruins of the lower city, their warriors spreading out, even in the light of the fading sun, Valten could see camps being erected and cordoned off and at the back of the city, furthest from the walls and the artillery on it, the surviving mammoths of the army were being herded, three great beasts of burden that no doubt would be assailing the inner wall come morning. Could the gates hold against those beasts? He didn't fancy their chances.

"The morrow looks grim," he turned to see Ottilia had come up beside him. "If we have to face all of that down now, I'm not sure how long we can hold."

"Well that looks to be how it is," Valten replied. "Your father has decreed that there are to be no sallies, and I can't command the army in his stead."

"And he's wrong."

"Wrong?"

Ottilia nodded. "Yes, wrong, we need to take every chance to bleed the foe, and while they're resting is just such a chance."

"No, we need to be more specific than that." Valten replied.

"How so?"

Valten pointed at the mammoths, "the enemy artillery is defeated, but they could smash through the gate within minutes, killing them could buy us hours of time and a much more favourable position."

Ottilia looked at Ghal Maraz, seemingly drawn to the weapon. Not surprising, given its pedigree. "Could you kill them?"

"Not from here," Valten laughed. "I'd like to do something, but I'd have to be there to do it."

"What if I could get you there?"

He looked at her, the wind seeming to suddenly quiet. He glanced back to make sure there was no one nearby. "Then I might be able to do something."

Ottilia nodded slowly. "Meet me at the north-eastern corner of the inner wall, at the base of the tower when darkness falls."

Before he could ask any questions, she strode off.

* * *

"You made it," Ottilia told him, arms crossed over her chest as though she didn't expect him to have come.

"Difficult as it was," he replied. It hadn't been easy, so many people wanted to see him, to hear his words, if they were lucky to touch Ghal Maraz itself. Such scrutiny made it difficult to get away, but a demand for peace and prayer got him the breathing room he needed to pull on a cloak, slip the noose of fervour and rejoin Ottilia where she had told him to. She was hidden in a corner, in the shadow of the inner wall by a sturdy iron grate, guarded by two men in the livery of the Hochland guard. "What's the plan?"

Ottilia nodded down at the grate. "This grate leads down to the sewers which spread out across the city. They're messy, unorganised, but I can guide us into the lower city."

"How does the daughter of the Count of Hochland know the way around the sewers?" He asked jokingly.

Ottilia stiffened. "Because the Captain of the Hochland Guard has had to scotch infestations of rats and goblins before," she said.

"So you can guide us in and out again?" She nodded, "and we can trust that the Count won't be informed?"

"Heinrich and Otto here won't say anything, will you boys?"

"No ma'am," one of the two guards said, grinning.

"Kill some of them for me would you?" asked the other.

"Of course," she smiled back. "Don't worry Herald, we'll be out and back before he realises we've gone." She nodded, and Otto opened the grate.

"Get going captain, before someone else notices."

"Come, herald." Ottilia said, gesturing into the blackness beyond the grate.

"By Sigmar that stinks!" He held an armoured palm to his face as he got off the ladder leading down into the sewers.

"What did you think it would smell like in the sewers, a rose garden?" Ottilia asked. From the little light following them down the grate he could see her grimace, but she bore the stench easily enough.

"No but-" he stopped as he stepped forward and heard a squelch.

Ottilia patted his arm gently, like he was simpleton. "Best to walk along the edges in my experience, and follow me closely, if you get lost down here it'll be dumb luck where you get out."

He followed her down the sewers, his nostrils learning to tolerate the shit and filth of the city that had congealed in these pathways, spread by the slow running of water. He tried to keep track as she led him down one path, then another, the only light being the flickering of torches and the pale spears of the moon that shot through the grates in the streets.

"Strange profession isn't it? A noble woman fighting with the common soldier." None of the noblewomen he'd been aware of in his youth would have dared do such a thing.

"If I had a coin for every time someone had said that to me," she muttered, not looking at him. "Normally I would be looking for a husband, picking out dresses and jewellery and fussing over cakes, true enough. But what would that achieve?"

"Alliances?" He replied dumbly, wishing he'd paid more attention to the lessons Huss had been giving him.

She laughed. "Oh yes, an alliance, that's true enough. But you see, here's the thing Herald, the Empire is united against this Chaos invasion as I've never seen it before, and since it began I have killed thirty six warriors of the north. That's thirty six warriors who would be busy raping, looting and murdering their way across the Empire as we speak if I hadn't killed them. So you tell me, what is more important, that I fuss over jewellery, or that I wet my blade in the blood of my enemies?"

Valten had to think about that for a second. "But-"

"No no Herald," Ottilia said, stopping and rounding on him, her frame outlined against the slivers of moonlight coming through the grate ahead. "Tell me, which is more useful to the Empire?" Her voice was angry, but she kept it low.

"I didn't mean-"

"I am sick and tired of people avoiding that question when I ask them, tell me!"

He was taken aback by the ferocity of her question. "Killing the Empire's enemies," he said.

"Thank you," she replied curtly. "So let's leave it at that for now, we have more enemies of the Empire to kill." She turned on her heel and continued walking.

They twisted down the sewer path in silence. Just as they passed one sewer grate in the roof several blobs fell into the sewer, followed by the plops of them landing in the sewage and the smell of fresh faeces. "Sigmar that's disgus-"

A hand was clamped over his mouth and Ottilia's face loomed out of the darkness, eyes wide with warning and a finger to her lips.

"What are you doing?" A voice called from the grate. "You trying to see where your shit went to Rolf?" Laughter followed after it.

"I thought I heard..." Another voice said, closer, just beyond the grate.

"Come on shit-sniffer Rolf, let's go or there'll be no ale left." He could just about make out the sound of departing footsteps.

"Be careful," Ottilia hissed, "we're nearly there; let's not alert the enemy that we're moving through the sewers, or this all backfires."

He nodded, face burning, and followed Ottilia further into the sewers.

Eventually Ottilia seemed to have found the exit she wanted, looking up the rungs of the ladder leading up to the city. "This entrance is deep in the lower city," she told him. "I'll go up first and check there's no one waiting."

She scurried up the iron rungs like a squirrel, even in her armour plate. Agonizing silence followed before she called back down that everything was all clear and he followed her up the ladder.

The city air was cold, crisp and refreshingly clean in the night as they emerged down a side street between timber shacks in the lower city. He looked around and could see no trace of the enemy nearby. "How did you know this place would be clear?"

"I didn't for sure," Ottilia told him, keeping a wary eye on the entrance to the side street. "But from the walls I could see that this part of the city didn't have many lights here, so this would be the best place to get out unnoticed. But come, we shouldn't linger in an open street." She slipped across to a door leading to a dark, dead house and tried the handle. It swung open effortlessly.

He followed her inside. The main room in the house had already been ransacked, tables and chairs turned over, cupboards ripped down and scattered across the floor. It was a mess, but he'd lived in worse in his home village.

"So," he said, pushing the door so that it was nearly shut and turning to Ottilia. "I assume you know how to get from here to the Mammoth pens? If not, then we've waded through shit for nothing."

"That won't be a problem, even if they've moved, we can hardly miss them, and this city is my home, even in the darkness I can get around it," Ottilia told him, heaving the table back up onto its legs, "but even so, we'd best take care." She reached into her pouch and pulled out a roll of leather. She unfurled it on the table and beckoned him over. He saw that it was an overview map of Hergig. "We're here," she said, pointing to a spot in the far west corner of the lower city, far from the front lines, "and the mammoths seemed to be around here." She pointed to a red cross scratched onto the map. "Not far away."

Valten nodded, only a few streets at most. "What are these?" He pointed at two red circles drawn not far from them.

"Rough locations of separate enemy camps, from what I could see from the walls," she replied. "It's not precise, but it is a start."

He nodded, "are they rival tribes?"

"They must have left space between them for a reason. I doubt the enemy warlord likes the idea that half his army is camped outside the walls and half within it."

"And they are Norscan I suppose," he said, "it's only natural that there would be conflict between the different tribes."

"Precisely, hopefully they are keeping far enough apart from each other for use to slip right down the middle."

He nodded. "After you."

They slipped out of the house and Ottilia led the way through the deserted streets, moonlight reflecting on the cobbles and the sounds of raucous violence and celebration coming from the northmen all around.

As they rounded a bend, Ottilia held up a hand to halt him. A group of northmen, four of the marauders, were ahead, one of them relieving himself on the corpse of a fallen soldier, the others laughing. He crept up behind Ottilia, who didn't jump as he whispered. "Shall we kill them?"

She nodded, drawing her knife. "Quietly, how many can you take?"

"Three."

She nodded, "I'll take the one on the left." She gestured forward, and they moved up on the marauders. Valten felled the first one with a single blow, dashing his brains over the cobbles. Before the others could react, he stepped forward, and underarm blow sending another marauder flying while at the same time he lashed out with his left hand, seizing the third marauder by the throat, and crushing it as the second one slammed into a stone wall. The last marauder had barely opened his mouth when Ottilia seized him tightly from behind, wrapping an arm around his throat and locking it in place. The warrior growled deep in his throat and spun around, dragging the shorter Ottilia with him and he tried to shake her off. Valten stepped over and planted a fist in his stomach. He crumpled like scrunched paper and fell to the ground, Ottilia twisted so the marauder fell on his face and she wasn't crushed before cutting in and across with her knife.

Once the warrior beneath her had finished twitching, she clambered to her feet and stowed her knife in the sheath on her belt. Nodding in approval, she gestured for them to move on. "Shouldn't we do something about the bodies?"

She looked at them, pondering. Bring one of them, I have an idea."

Valten nodded, curious as to her intent, but choosing to trust her. He hefted the nearest corpse onto one shoulder, "lead the way." The two stole their way deeper into the night.

* * *

Aldebrand sipped from his cup of water, his eyes fixed as they so often were at night, to the portrait that hung opposite his bed. It had been commissioned ten years ago, a world apart to the land he found himself in now. It was of he and his family in a clearing in the nearby forest. He had his longrifle tucked under one arm, while Konrad's rested on his shoulder. His son's face was turned up to him with a wide grin at the joy of his first kill on the hunt. Beneath them lay a great stag, a perfect shot placed through it. Next to him, his wife stood, her head rested on his shoulder, arm laced around his, while her other hand reached down and held the delicate fingers of Ottilia, who even as young as she was, stood tall and proud as the daughter of an Elector Count. Now his wife was dead, Konrad was in Nuln, studying with Erasmus there and Aldebrand had heard nothing from him since before he had ridden to the northern border. But no news was good news, and Nuln was far from the front line.

His eyes fell to his wife and daughter. Back then they had been inseparable, but now Ottilia was as different from her mother as night from day. Am I the only one who still sees her as this little girl? He often wondered. She'd become a fine captain of the Hochland regiments, if she were a son he would have nothing to be ashamed of in her, but his daughter... What would her mother say if she could see her now?

A knocking at the door drew his attention. "Enter." One of his guards entered, bowing his head. "Elector, something is happening in the city."

Aldebrand was on his feet in a second and striding to the wide floor to ceiling windows and looking out over the city. In a far quadrant, where his lookouts had identified one of the enemy camps, a great fire was raging. "What's going on?" He asked.

"We're not sure sir but..."

He snapped his head around to look at the soldier. "Spit it out man."

"Sir... we can't say for certain, but we can't find either the Herald or Captain Ottilia."

* * *

Ottilia locked her sword with the warrior's axe, dragged it down and away before quickly thrusting up again, her sword punching through the lower jaw of the warrior and up into his brain. Twisting at the hip she pulled her sword free and slashed her sword into the next warrior charging at her, the blade carving through his stomach, spilling guts to the cobbles like eels.

Not far from her, Valten brought Ghal Maraz down in an overhead blow that shattered the skull of one warrior, the next he took with a backwards blow that twisted the warrior's head around on his shoulder, as the last one charged him, spear low, ready to run him through, Valten twisted the hammer around, buried the hook on the back into the warrior's shoulder and, with a might wrench, ripping through the meat and muscle, leaving the limb hanging on by a few strands of sinew, a quick strike finished him off before his screaming could draw too much attention before they had made their escape. Ottilia found herself again marvelling at Valten's raw power, the way he moved in that heavy gromril armour and despatched his foes like they were nothing, never tiring or wavering, it was invigorating to be around.

He looked at her and smiled. "Not a bad start so far."

She nodded, smiling back. "Not bad at all, but soon it'll be so much better."

"Yes it will," he said.

Ottilia turned their gaze to the target of their attack, three great mammoths, bound by ropes stretching up and over the beasts' backs and binding them to the city wall behind them. – a perfect target. All they needed was something flammable. They searched the nearby houses appropriated by the northmen, silencing the warriors who lay within, and looking for something to start the great conflagration they planned to unleash on the enemy.

As she wiped the blood from her latest kill, Valten tapped her on the shoulder. "I've found something," he whispered.

She followed him into a nearby storehouse, one now used by the northmen and led her over to a large wooden barrel. Something dark and foul smelling was in it. "What is that?" She coughed, covering her nose and mouth with a forearm.

"Pitch," Valten said.

She smiled. "Perfect."

"Pitch perfect?"

She looked at him and could barely stifle a laugh. "That was awful."

Valten shrugged. "Well, help me with it." The barrel was heavy, it took the two of them to hoist it up and carry it out towards the tied down beasts. But the smell of the dead guards seemed to have reached the massive creatures and one of them, the largest one with a large shrine to the dark powers on its back, raised its trunk and let out a great roaring snort that shook the air.

Valten and Ottilia just had time to put the barrel down before they spun to see warriors dragging themselves blearily out of their newly appropriated shelters.

"Great," Valten muttered, he took up Ghal Maraz again. "You handle this, I'll keep them busy." Valten turned and strode out into the open. "Alright you bastards, who wants to die first?"

Ottilia turned, trusting Valten to hold off the warriors and pushed her cupped hands into the thick, black gloop. As the first clashes rang out from behind them she started daubing the fluid onto the mottled fur of the beast's giant leg. It took all her instincts not to snatch up her sword and turn to fight, but this had to be done, and she knew that Valten was capable enough to cover her back. She kept smearing the pitch on the beast, reaching as high as she could on the leg, while the sounds of battle rang behind her.

"Don't bother getting the entire leg!" Valten cried. "Just enough to start the fires, then move on to the next one!" She looked around to see Valten catch a sword blow on the haft of Ghal Maraz, while he kept another warrior trapped in a chokehold with his elbow. Four enemies lay dead around him but at least a dozen more were rushing in.

She scooped up another handful of pitch, soaking her arms up to the elbow and ran over to the second Mammoth, she hadn't emptied nearly enough to make the barrel light enough to carry. Once again, she ignored the sounds of battle and kept daubing fluid on the legs of the mammoth. She glanced back again, Valten was still fighting, felling foes left and right, like Sigmar himself, the hammer moved as part of him and in the moment it seemed as though he could face down the entire horde himself and emerge unscathed. But as she saw more and more warriors bearing down on him, she knew she had to finish soon.

Ottilia had now emptied enough pitch to make the barrel just light enough to heave a few inches off the ground and haul over to the last of the mammoths. She slathered the nearest beast with several great handfuls of pitch, looking over her shoulder constantly to check on Valten. The marauders had made a circle and were chanting on as the Herald battled a tall warrior, a head and a half taller than the Herald, with a great grey sword as long as a greatsword but wielded in a single massive hand. Stiff orange hair shot up over his head while a beard tangled down his chest, over a suit of damned armour of the dark gods. Ottilia paled, she'd seen a warband of warriors in such armour charge a line of handgunners unperturbed, and when they got there, carve them apart. Now Valten had to face one alone.

This one was fast, Valten could barely catch his strikes or divert his lunges and couldn't find a single opening to bring Ghal Maraz to bear. He ducked under a blow and skidded back out of reach, with a quick strike, he swatted the sword away to get it done. "If you're going to do something, do it now!"

"Gladly," the warrior said and charged again. He fended off another flurry of attacks, catching some on his hammer, but most on his armour. The gromril held, but the pain shot through to his bones and he could feel the skin bruising. A great trumpeting roar from behind him broke their concentration and made the pair of them look around. One of the mammoths was on fire, flames licking up it's back leg, the beast hauling at the ropes tying it down to try and escape. Ottilia was running beneath them, she held her sword in her right hand, hacking through the ropes as she passed them while a flaming stick was in her left, as she passed the second mammoth she shoved it into the pitch soaked fur, letting the flames catch before rushing on to the third. A group of warriors made to stop her but with the ropes cut the first two mammoths were free, free and enraged and stampeded towards them. Valten hurled himself aside as one mammoth smashed through the warriors who had gone for Ottilia and came right at them. The champion he'd been facing looked at him, judging whether he could give chase, but with a roar, he threw himself backwards, out of the way of the rampaging mammoths.

A hand slick with black pitch seized his arm and he spun to see Ottilia standing next to him. "We need to move, now!" He nodded and together they tore through the enemy, past the destruction wrought by the rampaging mammoths as warriors were scattered and the flames licked up the legs of the great beasts and burning droplets of pitch landed around them like molten rain. Through the pain, the screams and the flames, they ran through the camp.

As the two imperials raced into the darkness, Wulfrik roared in anger and rage. He could taste it in the air of the battle, there at last was a warrior worthy of his blade, one who's death would prove his greatness and the boldness of his claim and he'd come so close to taking his head. Next time, he vowed, next time he would not be denied!

"Keep moving," Valten said as they tore down the dark streets, most of the enemy were scattered and distracted by the rampaging mammoths that were tearing through the city, but at least some were hot on their heels. Valten wanted to turn and fight, but the fight with the enemy champion had taken a good deal of his strength, and he wasn't sure how much more he could take if they were mobbed.

"The nearest sewer entrance," Ottilia hissed, "this way."

"No, we have to lose our pursuers first, they can't know that there are ways to the inner city other than through that wall," Valten replied.

Ottilia growled, but she saw his point and they kept running. They turned down the next street, Ottilia's breath coming ragged and harsh as the exertions of the night pulled at her. He heard the enemy following him and glanced over his shoulder to see five hammering down the cobbles after him.

A crack split the air, just audible over the sounds coming from the camp. Valten came to a halt and spun as one of their pursuers fell dead. Another crack, another dead foe. Then a figure leapt from a nearby roof, using one warrior to break his fall, he tucked and rolled up, a sword flashing in one hand and a smoking gun in the other. He sidestepped the first warrior to change tack and attack him, opening his throat with a smooth snick of his blade. The other two came at him and in a deft display of skill, the figure left them both dead on the cobbles.

The man turned from the dead warriors and strode towards them, stowing his pistol, as he had with the other one, in a holster on his chest. "You damn bloody fool," Emil growled.

"I didn't think you were coming," Valten said.

"Neither did I," he replied, "but when I came to find you, you were gone, I went hunting and found the men you'd left to guard your exit." He looked pointedly at Ottilia, "they pretended not to know, but I root out lies and falsehood every day." Ottilia bowed her head in shame or embarrassment. "But now's not the time for chastisement, we return, now!"

"How did you get out?"

"Unlike you I went over the wall," Emil said, but we'll go back your way." He turned to Ottilia again. "You know the way back from here?"

She nodded. "This way," she said, her voice steely and strong.

They encountered no more enemies on their way back to the sewers, and held their silence as Ottilia led them through the stinking darkness back to where they had begun. When they got to the ladder, Valten put his hand on a rung, but Emil grabbed his arm. "Captain Ottilia should go up first." He looked back at Emil. "Trust me," the witch hunter said. Valten stood aside and let Ottilia ascend the rungs.

"Are you going to scold me now that she's gone?"

Emil shook his head. "No, but I promised that I would send Ottilia up first, now, up you go."

Valten frowned but scaled the ladder emerging into the orange tinted darkness of a brazier light being blocked, blocked in this case by at least thirty handgunners with their weapons levelled at him and Ottilia, who's arms were raised above her head.

"What's going on?" Valten demanded, his hand drifting to Ghal Maraz.

"Father," Ottilia said quietly.

Sure enough, Aldebrand Ludenhoff stood at the centre of the semi circle of gunners, his arms folded across his chest, his face etched with anger and disappointment.

"They didn't make it easy, Count," Emil said, emerging from the sewers after him. "But I found them."


	6. Disaster

"I hope you're counting your lucky stars," Emil hissed as they made their way through the sewers.

"Oh believe me, I am," Valten replied, flashing a grin back at the Witch Hunter.

He'd thought he might be thrown into the dungeons and left to rot, but thankfully it hadn't come to that. Aldebrand had taken the two of them up to the wall to examine the devastation left in the wake of their attack. All three mammoths had been brought down by their own handlers, unable to stop the rampage any other way, and each one had left a trail of burning destruction in their wake.

Aldebrand turned to the two of them. "So, your disobedience was not without benefit."

Valten glanced at Ottilia, were they being punished or not? "My lord-" he began.

"The enemy will be weaker without their mammoths, and I don't doubt they suffered other losses in the rampage," Aldebrand traced his fingers on the edge of the inner city battlements, looking out at his smouldering city. "Better than could have been hoped for, which is why I forbid such a move." He glanced over his shoulder at them. "It would seem I was wrong, you've done more than anything so far to hurt them with this one night, and just the three of you."

"Father-"

He held up a hand to stop her. Then he turned to them. "What more could you do if the army went with you?"

So that had led to the plan for the day. Aldebrand split off a full third of his army and ordered it to rest for the day, keep up their strength, for they would be following Valten again that night to launch a full attack on the enemy from every possible direction. It had been hell for those soldiers to watch Aldebrand lead a spirited defence of the walls, unable to help, their hearts in their chests, despairing over the possibility that the wall defence would fail, but it didn't fail, the men fought and died and held. Now it was their turn.

"Kill a few for me will you," Ottilia had told him as the army descended into the sewers.

Aldebrand had refused to allow her to join the attack, for she had disobeyed his orders, Valten may be a herald, but Ottilia was one of his soldiers and his daughter, she would remain behind on the night watch while Valten dealt the killing blow. "As many as my hammer can reach," he said, clapping her arm, "and more besides."

She smiled grimly. "I don't doubt it."

"Ottilia, to your post," Aldebrand swept over, his hair plastered to a sweat covered brow, his armour caked in blood and his cloak heavy with dust.

Not pushing her luck with her father any further, Ottilia saluted. "Yes, Count Aldebrand." She turned and made her way to the wall to take up her post.

Aldebrand shook his head and turned to him. "Then I suppose it's good luck to you, Herald."

"I won't let you down, Count Aldebrand, you have my word."

Aldebrand looked into his eyes for just a little longer. "I believe it," he said, before turning and making his way to the keep for some much needed rest.

And so Valten, Emil and a detachment of the Hochland army wound their way through the sewers, heading deep into the lower city, ready to strike the enemy with full force. Last night they had attacked with subtlety and dealt a slight blow, tonight they would be faint but strike with full fury.

"Here will do," he said as they came across an exit from the sewer into the lower city through a hole just over head height in the wall. "Emil, go have a peek."

Emil nodded, "give me a boost." Valten signalled for two soldiers to move, and they sheathed their swords and hurried over to the wall, cupping their hands. The witch hunter leapt onto them, boosting up and latching his fingers on the rim of the gap, ignoring the remnants of the filth that coated the opening. He poked his head through and looked around. "Stinks, but it's clear, let's go." He scrambled out and reached a hand down so grab the hand of the first soldier to follow. One at a time, the soldiers made their way up. Valten was the last to get boosted, and thanks to the gromril armour he bore, three had to reach in and seize his arms to haul him up.

"Much appreciated," he said, smiling at the men before reaching back to help haul up the two soldiers who had been boosting the others. They had opened on the edge of the main street, the men who had been pulled up had slipped into the shadows of the buildings lining the cobbled road and Valten hurried to join them. Twenty seven men in this squad, they would be outnumbered in their initial engagement, but the shock of their attack, the disorientation of all the other attacks occurring at the same time and Valten's own prowess should be enough to tip it in their favour. Strike hard, strike fast, deal a telling blow, then retreat.

"Which way?" Asked Emil to the leader of the swordsmen with them.

"This way," the grizzled soldier Karl said, pointing left down the street. "Just down there, second street on the right and we should be on the edge of that camp." He indicated the faint glow shimmering into the darkness behind the buildings ahead of them.

"Good, let's go, we can't have long before the signal comes. Emil, take point, Karl you follow, I'll come in the middle, you two, take the rear." He noticed one of the swordsmen was shaking in his boots, his shoulders rising and falling with uneven breaths. "What's your name?" He asked. The man looked up at him and Valten realised that boy was a more appropriate descriptor.

"Aloys," he whispered.

"You're going to be okay Aloys," he said, smiling, "just stick by me, okay." Not giving Aloys a chance to wait and doubt, he pulled him along and set off in the middle of the group.

Emil and Karl led the swordsmen through the shadows until they were within sight of the palisade of the norscan camp. The men slipped into the ransacked houses nearby, torn apart in the northerner's hunt for loot, and waited, the sound of breathing the only thing that could be heard in the darkness. Valten waited by the door, poking his head out and watching the camp. It seemed to be silent; he couldn't even see any sentries keeping watch, strange, after last night he'd assumed that they would be keeping an even tighter watch.

"We should go now," Aloys said from beside him.

"Not just yet," he replied. "If we attack before the signal is given then the other camps might be alerted. But don't worry, we should hear it any minute now." Aloys nodded vigorously, the adrenaline pumping through him.

They waited and waited, he saw one of the men in the next building step out and piss away his anxiety.

"Can't be long now," Aloys said.

"It won't be," he replied, holding out a hand to keep Aloys back from the door, "don't worry." But even Valten felt the eagerness within his very bones ready to burst forth, he wanted to fight.

The bell tolled. The chimes that normally rang for weddings and ceremonies and great events now rang for blood and battle. "This is it boys!" Valten grinned back at them. "Let's go get the bastards!"

Valten wrenched open the door and hurtled right for the camp before the enemy learned for whom the bell doth toll.

They had left only a wounded warrior on guard, his arm hanging limp and bloody by his side with his remaining hand clutched thick spear with a heavy barbed head. Valten ended him. He burst into the camp, followed by his soldiers. A few other barbarians were waiting for them, all swiftly dispatched, with only a flesh wound suffered in return. "They must still be sleeping," the captain said. He sounded in awe of their luck. "Fools, torch the tents, burn them while they sleep."

The furs caught light easily, the fires spreading swiftly, tongues of fire darting from one burning tent to lick the heat and light across the next. The men spread the fires for as long as they could keep up, but it didn't take long for the fires to outpace them and to start spreading alone.

The men cheered in their victory, the cheers rising above the fires as a battalion of swordsmen came from the other side of the tent, their own fires curling into the sky around them.

Something was wrong. He glanced around and found Emil looking just as concerned. "Something's off," he said to the witch hunter, "what is it."

"Listen," Emil shushed him. "What do you _not_ here?"

Valten listened, not sure what Emil was asking. "What would you be doing if your tent caught fire around you?"

"Screaming probably," Valten said. Then he saw the knowing look on Emil's weathered features. "No no no!"

He raced for the nearest tent, the fires swirling around the furs and fabrics. He tore the curtain covering the opening aside. Heat stung his eyes and smoke swept up his nostrils. He covered his lower face with an armoured glove, desperate to keep out the heat and smoke, and squinted through the light to where half a dozen sleeping furs lay on the ground, discarded, and very much empty.

He rushed back outside. "Stop!" He yelled. "Stop!" He called again when his voice failed to carry over the sound of the crackling fires. A few of the nearer soldiers must have seen him for they stopped celebrating to look his way. When Aloys noticed he added his own voice to Valten's call. "The tents are empty!" he yelled. "The enemy aren't here!"

"Then where are they?" Karl asked, the men looking at the tents in confusion.

"Blood of Sigmar!" Emil had scaled the palisade like a squirell and leapt to the roof of a nearby building. He turned back to them. "They're attacking the wall!"

* * *

Valten led his men in a furious race back towards the wall, all though of subtlety and strategy gone. They made it onto the main street and turned for the gate only to find their way barred. Fearsome barbarian warriors were finishing off another force that had attempted to make their way back to the gate. They turned to Valten's group with hungry gazes and bloody axes, and charged. "For Sigmar!" Valten roared, and led his men to meet them.

Desperation against barbarity, order against disorder, the two forces clashed. Valten broke bone and shattered skulls, Emil shot one foe through the head and stabbed another in the heart. Karl opened a warrior's throat from ear to ear, but for every foe killed, a soldier of Sigmar was lost. Aloys was the first to fall, driven to the ground, kicking and screaming, the axes followed, rising and falling, rising and falling. One swordsman drove his blade through a barbarian's guts, but the warrior seized the swordsman's head and twisted violently. Three warriors were bowled over by a brute a head taller than any of them and they were set upon by his fellows.

In the end, Valten was able to thin the enemy enough for them to break through and make for the gate, leaving half their number behind them. Their intervention was timely, for the second wall was on the verge of collapse.

Warriors were scaling the wall with grapples and crude ladders, met at the top by state troops tried desperately to drive them back. Valten saw one swordsman drive two barbarians from the wall their bodies twisting and flailing as they fell and broke upon the ground. The swordsman leapt onto the battlements and parted the rope of a grapple with a single swipe of his blade. Before he could celebrate a spear hurled from the base of the wall took him in the chest.

At the gate more crowds of warriors were waiting as a trio of ice trolls hammered at the carved wood with great clubs, splinters flying off it an huge dents marking the carven oak. It wouldn't last much longer. Just before Valten and his soldiers reached them the gate sundered, flying open. As they did so a hail of arrow and shot spat out, peppering the trolls, killing two outright and sending the other spinning away, clutching at its face and roaring in pain. Following the bullets came a rush of hot air, followed by a huge skull of roaring flame, teeth gnashing, tongue licking that fell upon the barbarian warriors like a wolf upon a feast. Valten raised his arms to shield his eyes as the skull burned out. A shield wall of spearmen had followed the skull and now took up position in the ruined gates, arrows flying over them to land among the barbarian warriors.

"Charge!" Valten roared and smashed into the barbarians, still disorganised from the strike, punching through them like a hot dagger through butter. Valten's survivors joined the spearmen and drove the enemy back, creating a bubble of hope around the gate. As Valten lay about him, he hoped that other survivors would follow.

Few would come. Just as Valten and his people had set fires in their enemy camp, other battalions had struck at further enemy camps to the same effect. One by one they had made for the inner wall, realising what had happened, and most fell into carefully hidden ambushes, cut down in great numbers, others were hounded by wolves or ambushed as they were setting the original fires. Of all the warriors who set out to attack that night, barely one in six made it back to the gate, most arriving in ones and twos, crippled and exhausted. And all the while, the enemy pressed their attack on the inner wall, swarming all along its length as the Hochland armies desperately tried to throw them back. At times, the warriors of the north came close to taking a section of wall, only to be beaten back, at others, the Hochland army was able to move gunners and crossbowmen right up to the battlements to rain death on the warriors below. But as the attack progressed, the defenders became more desperate, losing more and more soldiers for every meagre victory gained.

It was no different at the gate. At times, Valten was leading a spirited defence that the enemy bounced off, at times he was a lone island of defiance as worn out defenders retreated and fresh men came to plug the gaps.

"Herald!" A soldier seized him in a momentary break and brought him back as more swarmed around him to form a fresh shield wall.

"What is it?" He panted.

"The Count needs to see you."

Valten was brought back through the gate to where Aldebrand Ludenhof was waiting, his long rifle smoking from use and blood spotting his armour. All around them, wounded were being gathered up and taken back through the inner city towards the citadel.

"Herald," Aldebrand growled darkly. At his side a wizard in flame red robes dabbed at his brow, sweat pouring down his face. "We've lost here, the inner city can't be held."

"We can Count, we-"

"No, we can't," Aldebrand said. "We're moving back to the citadel, as many men as we can bring, but we need some to hold the line here."

"I'll stay with them," Valten said at once.

"We need you Herald," Aldebrand insisted.

"I'm not dying here," he said. "But my attack allowed this to happen, I'll hold the line, let you retreat."

Aldebrand stared for a second, then nodded. "Very well, Sigfried here will give you a signal when we've reached the citadel, when you see it, retreat, we'll provide covering fire."

"How will I see it?" Valten asked, looking at the red wizard.

"You won't miss it," Siegfried said, smiling, "I promise you that."

Valten snatched a water skin and took a long swig before tossing it back to the startled soldier he'd taken it from. "I'd better get going."

Aldebrand nodded. "Go, I'll oversee the retreat." Valten heard the bitterness in Aldebrand's voice, the shame at having to leave his men behind to lead a retreat, a retreat to the last heart of his domains. Valten raised Ghal Maraz in salute and returned to the gate. Most of the soldiers on or around the walls made one last push to clear enemies away before most turned to retreat, a last guard remaining to buy time for their friends, a second that might cost them their lives and save another's, a price they paid without hesitation. Valten noted that many of the last guard that followed him through the gate sported great wounds, many wouldn't see the next dawn even if they had retreated, there was no choice for them, but others bore no wounds beyond exhaustion, their eyes set and grips firm. He nodded his silent thanks to them before leading them out of the broken gate once more.

Valten looked upon the fallen and slain, those who had died here because he had the arrogance to believe that the same trick would work twice, and thought of all those who hadn't made it back, of Aloys who had died in the streets and Karl who had fallen beside him trying to hold the enemy at bay. Ottilia was meant to be on the walls somewhere, had she made it? Where was Emil, likely dead as well. He stepped forward to meet the enemy while his fellows formed up behind him. Taking Ghal Maraz in two hands he swung it in wide arcs, felling two or three foes with every devastating arc, driving the enemy away.

But in the end, they were fighting on borrowed time. The wounded among them were the first to fall, blows slipping past weakened defences to shatter shield and skull, next were the fellows beside them, suddenly exposed to axe and blade and spear and unable to keep up their defence. Soon, sooner than he would have liked, Valten stood alone among the defiant dead, attacks coming from all angles. For every enemy he felled, three attacks rang off his gromril armour. But every moment they tried to kill him was another they weren't swarming towards the gate.

Then it came, a dryness in the air. Then came a heat and then a roar. Then a great lance of flame shot from the sky, spearing through the enemy on the wall. Then came another, and another, and soon, the street in front of the wall became a target for flaming spears shattering stone and turning flesh to cinders.

 _There's my signal,_ he thought, turning and hurtling back through the gate as fast as his worn down limbs could carry him. He'd made it perhaps fifty yards from the gate, enemies starting to trickle in behind him, away from the falling lances.

He turned, still backing away, better to not have his back to the enemy. But then came Aldebrand's covering fire. A great roar of cannon shot slammed into the gatehouse, targeting the structural weaknesses and bringing it down in a tumble of stone and masonry. It wouldn't slow the enemy forever, but it was enough. He gripped Ghal Maraz. It was enough to butcher the few who had made it through before he returned to the citadel.

* * *

Luregar looked around with glee as the bodies of the sigmarite fallen were piled high, the warriors of the north revelling in their victory. It was truly a great slaughter.

"Wulfrik! Wulfrik! Wulfrik!" Was the chant of victory, as the champion of chaos wandered among them, sword bloody and raised.

But it wasn't a victory, not really, not in the way that truly mattered.

Luregar didn't dare interrupt Wulfrik in his celebrations, but when they had died down for a moment, as hordes of warriors began moving up to the final wall standing against them, then he approached the hunter of champions.

"Oh great wanderer," he said, bowing low. "Forgive this one's impertinence, but there is one last problem we have."

Wulfrik huffed. "You talk about this so called Herald of Sigmar, Raven-Caller?" Wulfrik demanded.

Luregar nodded. "Indeed my lord, he fought, and fought, but still he lives, no matter who tried their hand against him."

Wulfrik laughed. "Of course they did, do you not see it, Raven-Caller, the gods have sent me to claim the skull of the Herald. Me! Not them. Do not fear, next time the Herald of Sigmar goes to battle, it will be me he faces," Wulfrik slammed his fist into his armoured chest. "To Khorne I will give his skull, to Nurgle the contents of his slit belly, to Slaanesh his still-beating heart," he turned to Luregar, with a wicked grin that screamed of the victims he had claimed over the years, "and to your master, to great Tzeentch, I will give his last, dying breath."

"Forgive me, lord," he said, the thought of the offering to Tzeentch sending a thrill of ecstacy through his chest, "but how do you know the Herald will come for you?"

Wulfrik clapped a hand on Luregar's shoulder that nearly broke it out of its socket. "This way." He led Luregar back through the broken gates and down the streets to where a small group of norscan spearmen waited. "This is how," Wulfrik said, gesturing.

Luregar grinned. Perhaps fifty prisoners lay bound and guarded.

"When the Herald sees the blood eagles rise, then he will come and face me himself, and his death will bring me this city."

Luregar joined in the laughter of the barbarians. They laughed so hard that they didn't see one of the prisoners squirm and spit.

"Just wait, the Herald will turn your skull into paste you norscan scum!" hissed Ottilia through her swollen face and simmering hate. "Just wait!"


	7. The Heralds

A/N: So there is probably only one more chapter to wrap things up in this story. Next we'll be moving on to the opening stage of the war between the High Elves and Darkelves with _Daemonpact_ , featuring Morathi, Alith Anar and others. Keep your eyes peeled if interested.

* * *

"How many?"

"Are able to fight, or how many have we lost?"

"Either."

"If the enemy attack tonight we'll have barely enough to man the walls of the citadel. Every day more of our wounded recover but..."

"But there is no reason for our enemies to give us days, there is no reason for them to give us more than a few hours." Aldebrand sighed, and shook his head. "Very well then, have the men ready, for if this is to be our end, I will have them make an end worthy of Hochland."

"Yes sir."

"Captain," Aldebrand halted the captain just as he was to make an exit. "I don't suppose... is there any news of..."

The captain bowed his head, to keep his gaze away from his Count's. "No, my lord, there is no sign of Captain Ottilia."

"I see, thank you." The captain left and Aldebrand looked down at the desk, his fingers curling into fists. The tears began to fall. "I was meant to keep you safe," he whispered. There was no one to hear.

He cuffed the tears away and turned his mind to strategy, planning, forethought, hoping that it would be enough to drive his daughter's memory from his mind for a few hours.

Since the siege had begun, half the defending army had been lost; death or injury taking them from the battle lines. He had to think that they had inflicted heavy losses on their foes for them to make such gains, but it hadn't been enough to force a retreat. And he knew that even such a tally of death had only been made possible by the herald.

Aldebrand had never been the most pious man, but the herald... He'd seen him fight twice now, both here and at the battle of Alderfen at Gelt's Folly and he was a warrior unlike anything Aldebrand had seen, his fires never dimming, fighting on beyond what any other could achieve. With the great hammer of Sigmar in his hand and burnished dwarfen armour wrapping his muscled body it was easy to see why he was seen as a saviour by so many.

But that had doomed Hergig.

Had he not been taken in by Valten's successes, he wouldn't have ordered such an attack, he would have carried on doing what worked, he would have bled the enemy against his walls, with his army safe and ready. Was this a punishment for arrogance? Or something worse. He remembered the cackling Changeling, the beast the Herald seemed to have slain, that had sown such discord among them at the Auric bastion. Had his unveiling been just another ploy, a cover to bring the Herald into their circles?

It would make sense, after all, the Folly had fallen even with the Changeling's 'death' and now, here Valten was, on the frontline again, still making people love him even as he undermined the defences.

No, it couldn't be, could it?

If the Herald escaped here, with a retinue of survivors, his legend would only grow, even as he handed another victory to Chaos. And then, would the process repeat, until the last defenders of the Empire were gathered around him, for him to turn on or abandon to their fate. Was this all the work of the great trickster god of chaos?

The more Aldebrand thought about it, the more everything fell into place. If it hadn't been for the Herald he would still have half his city, he would still have most of his army, he would still have Ottilia. Seething, Aldebrand snatched up Goblin Bane, drawing the Runefang from the ornate mahogany scabbard. The blade glinted, the edge as sharp as it had ever been. Aldebrand sheathed his blade and made for the door.

The courtyard of the city was littered with the wounded, sprawled in the dying light of day. Doctors, apothecaries and priestesses of Shallya were tending to them as best they were able. Only one in three seemed to be on a suitable bed, the rest lying on the hard stone.

"My Lord Count," one man struggled to his feet but Aldebrand waved him down.

"Ease, soldier, rest, all I need to know is where the Herald is currently."

"He was heading for the chapel, my lord."

Aldebrand rested a hand on his shoulder. "Thank you soldiers, rest now, recover your strength." Steeling himself, he made his way for the small chapel at the edge of the courtyard.

The bodies seemed to be concentrated there, many probably hoping for the blessings of the Herald to help them recover. Would they be left disappointed as well.

Aldebrand cracked the door open a little and peered inside. The Herald was knelt before the Altar of Sigmar, his witch hunter ally talking down at him, sternly. He tried to listen, but couldn't hear quite what was being said.

He made to enter, but a voice stopped him. "My lord!"

He turned, a messenger was racing over as fast as his limp could carry him. "You're needed at the gate my lord, now!"

Aldebrand glanced back at the chapel. "Are we under attack?"

"Not... quite my lord."

"Very well." He loosened his grip on Goblin Bane and turned to follow the soldier to the wall.

At the parapets he looked down on the city beyond. The norscan army had formed a ring, exposing a wide circle just in front of the main gate. A stage.

Their leader was calling up to the walls, but not to the soldiers, and not to him.

"Come out come out Herald!" Wulfrik cried. "Come out and face your destiny! Face me!" He continued, issuing his challenge to the absent Herald of Sigmar. After a short while, he paused, and waited.

"Sir, should we take the shot?" Aldebrand looked. Half a dozen riflemen had their weapons pointed at the enemy champion. Much as Aldebrand would have loved to have given the order, he knew it would be pointless. Wulfrik bore chaos cursed armour, unless a lucky shot took him in the head, a few rifle rounds wouldn't stop him.

"No, stand down," he said. "Let him rant, every second is needed."

"Yes sir."

The tense standoff continued, until the champion spoke up again. "Very well Herald, it seems you need some motivation. Bring the prisoners!"

With a roar of eager anticipation, the ranks of marauders parted and rank after rank of bound prisoners were dragged forward, filth stained, bloody and nearly broken. They were forced to their knees. The champion of chaos gestured and one of the prisoners was brought forward, his breastplate cut from him. "Very well Herald, if you're not going to give me some fun, I'll have to make some for myself." The champion drew a hand axe and stepped behind the prisoner.

Death did not come quickly. Spurred on by the watching horde, the champion carved into his soldier's back. The champion held out a hand for silence, so all that could be heard was the prisoner's screams, as the axe tore away at the flesh of his back. Aldebrand closed his eyes. He'd heard of this technique of the northmen before – the Blood Eagle, Valkia's Gift.

"Count Aldebrand." Aldebrand looked away from the torture, the screams like nails driving into his ears. "Look there, third prisoner from the left, isn't that..."

Aldebrand looked and his face paled. "Ottilia," he breathed.

()()()

"I lost," Valten whispered, knelt in the chapel. "How could I lose, I thought I was... How..."

"You are a herald of Sigmar, not Sigmar himself," Emil reminded him. The witch hunter had managed to make it back the previous night, though the older man looked more haggard than Valten had ever seen him. "When he was but a king among men, Sigmar made mistakes, his story was not a glorified path to the godhood that awaited him, it was paved in glory and gore in equal measure, but unlike everyone else he followed the path right to the end. Are you going to fail here, at the first hurdle?"

Valten looked up. "But Sigmar had the strength to move on, he had loyal armies and kings knelt before him. I led an army last night, and it got cut down because of me."

Emil nodded. "You did, and it was, but this is a war for the very world we live in," he replied. "Armies will die, cities will burn and we will be very changed by the time it is done. But tell me this, Valten, herald of Sigmar, do you still have strength in your limbs?"

"I... yes."

"Are you still clad in the finest suit of armour ever worn by a human, do you still bear the hammer of the greatest of us?"

Valten nodded. "I do."

"Then it is up to you to not stop, just as I must not stop so long as I can still swing my sword and fire my gun and chase my foes. We cannot stop fighting, because there are those in the world who cannot fight, whatever setbacks your foe deals you, you _must_ rise and stand tall again, or the countless thousands who rely on you to be their sword and their shield will all perish." Emil knelt so that he was at Valten's eye level. "Tell me, did you ever hear the story of how Sigmar vanquished Nagash?"

"Bits and pieces," Valten replied.

Emil stood tall again, as a teacher standing over a student. "It was Sigmar himself who had drawn the Great Necromancer to the fledgling Empire," Emil intoned. "With the arrogance of man, Sigmar had come across the Crown of Sorcery while purging greenskin tribes from the Darkwood. When he held it in his hands, he heard the whispers of the crown. A hundred whispers all at once: Place me on your brow, and power over life and death shall be yours, place me on your brown and an empire of power and glory shall be yours, unending until the breaking of the world. These promises and more poured into the mind of our great saviour and, unable to resist, he placed the crown atop his head. With the pain of lightning and fire, Sigmar realised his mistake, and cast the crown aside, sealing deep in the vaults of his capital.

"But the crown had achieved its desire. By donning it, Nagash's spirit was roused from its slumber, and the Great Necromancer began raising his hordes to reclaim what was his. Sigmar, rallying the tribes and armies of the fledgling Empire stood against Nagash on every field, but the armies of death were numbered beyond counting, and the men under His command could only hold so long. Seeing that his only chance to defeat his enemy was to draw him into single combat, Sigmar ventured deep into his vaults, reclaimed the crown and placed it once more on his brown. Using his immense will, he resisted the call of the crown and bore it into battle, drawing Nagash to him. Nagash, drawn by a need for the crown that outweighed all other concerns, fell upon Sigmar who, finally, was able to defeat Nagash and cast him down, destroying him and his army in a great swipe of Ghal Maraz."

Valten looked up at Emil, who had paused in his telling. "I don't understand."

"Sigmar, in his darkest moment, drew to his empire, the very enemy that came closest to destroying it. Yet he did not give up. But here is his herald, blubbering over the fact that he may have helped the enemy take one city."

"You're saying..."

"You shouldn't be here," Emil said. "You should be out there, correcting your mistake, and if you won't go, then turn that hammer over to someone who can deliver it back to the Emperor, and go hide somewhere while those who have the will to fight do."

Valten was about to reply when the door burst open. "Herald!" an out of breath voice made them both turn to see a panting soldier at the gate. "Come quickly, their killing them!"

When he got to the walls, Valten cursed. Wulfrik was onto his third prisoner, the two previous victims lay prone on the ground, their backs broken open, ribs hacked away from the spine and lungs pulled out like bloody wings. "What is this?" Valten asked.

"The blood eagle," Aldebrand whispered, the count staring, face pale and taut. "They have her."

"Who?"

"Ottilia, and she's..." Valten looked, and saw at the end of the line, Ottilia knelt, bound and defiant.

"No!"

"She's next," Aldebrand said.

"Why is he doing this?"

As if in answer, the champion called out. "Come on out Herald! Face me, and they go free, or hide and they all suffer this fate."

"He wants..."

"To fight you," Aldebrand finished.

He looked at Emil, who stared into his eyes, hard and set, and nodded.

"I'm going."

"Herald wait!"

Valten was already making his way back to the steps when Aldebrand caught him. "I know, it's my daughter, my men, but if you open that gate, they could charge in and kill us all." Valten saw the pain in Aldebrand's eyes.

"They won't," Valten said. He gripped the haft of Ghal Maraz, for his own comfort as much as anything else. "I will fight him, they'll go free, and you'll have a few dozen more soldiers."

"You have no guarantee that he will keep his promise if you go."

"Perhaps not, but I know they will definitely die if I don't."

"Herald-"

"Count." They reached the gate and he turned to face Aldebrand. "Your daughter, those men, they're out there because I failed, I owe them and the Empire this. Please."

Aldebrand took a few breaths. "You'll bring her back?" He needed this, he needed to know that there was something waiting for him, that he wasn't opening the gate for nothing.

Valten nodded. "If it is within my power, I will."

Aldebrand nodded. "Get ready to open the gate."

Valten thanked him then made his way over to a nearby crossbowman. "I'm going to need that," he said, holding out his hand for the loaded crossbow.

The gate opened and Valten left to face Wulfrik the Wanderer, champion of chaos.

The enemy all looked at him as he strode out. Wulfrik paused in his action of hacking the ribs of his victim out. Valten, knowing there was nothing else to be done, raised his borrowed crossbow and fired, the bolt punching through the heart of Wulfrik's latest victim to give him peace.

He discarded the crossbow and took up his hammer again, stepping forward. He saw the enemy horde slavering and grinning in anticipation, but when his eyes fell to the prisoners, they too smiled, in relief and joy at his coming. Why, he'd led them to where they were. He didn't turn to look, but he felt the eyes of everyone on the walls watching him as the gate closed behind him.

"I'm here, Wanderer," he said, standing firm.

"So you are," Wulfrik grinned, dropping his hand axe and drawing his great blade. "Just as I wanted."

"Yes," Valten replied, "I'm what you want. You can let them go," he gestured to the prisoners.

"Oh I will," Wulfrik replied, stepping forward, "just as soon as I beat you."

Valten didn't bother arguing, words wouldn't resolve this. He raised Ghal Maraz and stepped forward.

The air became still and silent, everyone watching, no one daring to breathe. Then two champions of the gods leapt at each other.

Valten had hoped for an early blow to drive Wulfrik back, but immediately he was on the back foot. Wulfik's centuries of challenging worthy foes had turned him into a master of his blade and it slashed out, forcing Valten to back off and use Ghal Maraz to block the blow. With the speed of a striking serpent, Wulfik followed up with a rapid flurry of strikes, not giving him an opening to strike.

He desperately through up Ghal Maraz, trying to ward off Wulfrik's blows, but one came close enough to slice a thin line across his cheek, and another would have taken his head if he hadn't ducked. His dwarf forged plate dented on the sides, but the steel held under the barrage of blows.

Valten realised quickly that he was outclassed in terms of skill and experience, Wulfrik had centuries behind him, Valten had only years, and only months with Ghal Maraz. He felt the hammer jolt and jar with every blow he fended off.

The two broke apart, circling each other. "Surely you can do better!" Wulfrik jeered to the roars of the crowd.

"I only want to give you a fair fight," Valten replied, launching another attack. At first, it seemed to succeed, but Wulfrik quickly regained his balance and drove Valten away again. Valten ducked under a heavy swing, and brought Ghal Maraz around, but his strike simply glanced off Wulfrik's back and he twisted his sword in his grip, driving it backwards in a powerful thrust. Valten sidestepped it and lashed out, but Wulfrik caught the blow, twisted Ghal Maraz away and lashed out. Valten barely backpedalled in time and another thin line was opened across his forehead. Valten felt the blood trickle down his face, hot and sticky as once again, the two started circling each other.

Wulfrik laughed with glee. "Is this really the best that your god could send against mine?"

Valten snarled, but refrained from charging in again. He had to shift the battle, Wulfrik had the advantage as long as they kept this going, and the next blow to his head could end him.

He approached cautiously, Ghal Maraz held to the side, inviting Wulfik to attack him.

The champion of the dark gods obliged coming at him with a powerful lunge that could punch through the hide of a saurian. Valten dodged and readied for the follow up strike which came flashing for his face. He bent backwards to avoid it, then smashed the sword with Ghal Maraz, opening Wulfrik up, seizing his chance, he dropped Ghal Maraz to the ground and drove in close, slamming a fist into Wulfrik's breastplate. The force made the champion grunt and Valten drove in, delivering blow after blow of gromril fists to Wulfrik's torso and face. He may lack Ghal Maraz's raw power, but here Wulfrik was unable to bring his sword to bear. Valten drove Wulfrik back with his fists, then staggered him with a savage kick to his knee. He drove his heel into Wulfrik's chest and leapt on top of him. He drove his fists at Wulfrik's face, who twisted away and raised his arms to shield himself. Valten's punch cracked the stone beneath the champion, but his second connected with Wulfrik's cheek. But the champion then blocked the next two and started twisting and kicking, threatening to dislodge Valten.

 **Do you cast me aside so easily?**

The voice rumbled like distant thunder inside Valten's head. He tried to keep up his attack, but Wulfrik was now punching back as for every blow he took, and Valten was nearly shaken from his perch by Wulfrik's relentless twists of his hips and legs.

 **He won't be beaten by you, not like this.**

Valten tasted blood as a blow slammed into his face. It staggered him and that one moment was all Wulfrik needed. He roared and cast Valten off him. Valten rolled away, clambering to his feet. He spat out a broken tooth in a wad of blood and squared himself up to Wulfrik.

Wulfik grinned a bloody grin of his own as he got to his feet. "Not bad entertainment, but not good enough!" He snatched up his sword and calmly stood between Valten and the now discarded Ghal Maraz.

 **Will you leave my Empire to be ravaged by him?**

The voice seemed to be coming closer, but no one else seemed to hear it. He cast his eyes around, looking for anyone else who might be hearing it, but there was no one. Everyone was looking at the fight.

 **Will you, boy? Did I come to you so that you could fail here?**

"Who are you?" He whispered.

Wulfrik approached slowly, seeing that Valten wasn't making any moves to get passed him. "I was hoping for so much more," he almost sounded disappointed.

Wulfrik attacked. Valten dodged the first two cuts, took the third on his breastplate, but that blow left him staggered and Wulfrik stepped in, driving his shoulder against Valten and sending him to the ground again.

He pulled himself away, staggering to his feet right next to the bodies of the blood eagled prisoners. His fingers curled into anger as he saw the twisted agony on their dead faces.

 **Will you let him get away with this?**

Wulfrik stalked towards him, clearly looking to end things.

"No," Valten hissed.

 **Then defeat him, boy.**

"How?"

 **Take me up.** The voice was threaded with a divine rage. **Take up my hammer, boy, and smite my enemies!**

Valten charged, diving under Wulfrik's slash and skittering along the cobbles. His hand closed around Ghal Maraz. He swung the hammer in a moment of pure instinct. Wulfrik, who had been preparing to drive his blade home, was unable to react in time, and Ghal Maraz connected with his breastplate. A flash of blue light stunned Valten and Wulfrik was sent flying, he landed bodily. The display of power stunned Valten as much as the flash, and Wulfrik was quick to return to his feet. His eyes were laughing again and he spay blood from his lips. The crowd around them fell silent, until one voice cried out.

"No!" Luregar Raven-Caller cried. They were meant to prevent this, not bring it about.

Valten looked down. Ghal Maraz was glowing, tiny runes carved into the hammer glinted with the light of blue crystals.

 **Finish this, now!**

Valten charged.

Ghal Maraz spun through the air and rained blow after blow upon Wulfrik. The champion of chaos, so long on the attack backpedalled in alarm, trying to block the hammer, especially after the last blow. And Valten saw. He saw where to place his blows, he saw how much strength to put behind each and every swing, he saw when to dart out and when to step in close. He saw.

He drove Wulfrik back towards his men, and overstepped. One blow swung too wide and Wulfrik pounced, he slashed at Valten's unprotected face with a flurry of blows. Valten raised Ghal Maraz with one hand and used his gromril vambrace on the other to protect both sides of his head.

Wulfrik swung a heavy blow at Valten's head. He ducked low, letting the blade pass overhead. Wulfrik brought the blade back and Valten reached out, using the haft of his hammer to block Wulfrik's wrist, stepped back and smashed Ghal Maraz into Wulfrik's elbow. Plate buckled and with a sickening crunch, the bone of Wulfrik's elbow suddenly protruded from his inner arm. Wulfrik roared in pain, as he dropped his sword, but his left hand shot out to catch it and thrust at Valten's stomach. In a single motion, Valten stepped aside, raised his hammer and brought it down, crushing Wulfrik's other hand. Not stopping Valten span in front of the champion and brought his hammer around in a wide arc, driving it into Wulfrik's left knee. The plate metal broke and Wulfrik's kneecap was smashed out of his leg, skittering across the ground in a burst of blood, bone and gore. Again Ghal Maraz rose, and again it fell, crushing Wulfrik's right foot to paste within his armoured boot.

Screaming in pain he fell to the ground, a quivering mess. Valten's eyes scanned the crowd, the warriors in it looking upon him with a mixture of fear and rage.

He reached down and gripped Wulfrik's head, pulling him up by the hair and setting him on his ruined knees, holding him up. Unbidden, the words he knew he must say came to him, and when he spoke, he voice carried like thunder, it flanged with two tones, like a part of the voice that came upon him was speaking with him.

"This man, said that he would spare my people, if I were to face him and he were victorious. I now extend to you the VERY. SAME. OFFER!" His roar made the enemy recoil, as he raised Ghal Maraz and brought it down.

Wulfrik the Wanderer shattered in a flash of blue light that spilled like a wave from where the hammer had struck, the runes glowing like bolts of pure thunder.

The enemy began to flee.

"Run!" Valten screamed deific thunder. "Run!" The marauders turned to flee, scrambling over each other as another wave of blue light spilled around them, chilling them to their frozen northern bones, some hacked apart any who got in their way, desperate to flee from the vengeful warrior. Luregar opened a portal to flee, others who tried to join him were cut in half as it closed on them. Another rolling wave poured from Valten and chased the northmen away.

"Run! Run to your masters and run to your gods! Run to the Everchosen **and give him this message!"** He raised Ghal Maraz high and roared after the fleeing vermin. **"The Herald of Sigmar comes for him!"**


End file.
